Years ago, David and I would always attend a New Year’s Eve Ball at a ritzy hotel in Waikiki. We would first dine at a sumptuous banquet and then dance to typical ballroom dance music — the cha-cha, waltz, fox trot, you name it. After the finale at midnight, we’d climb into our car and head home.
Big mistake! We should have reserved a room at the hotel and spent the night there. Instead, we crept on the freeway, our vision impaired by the thick smoke from popping firecrackers. It was extremely dangerous, because we could barely see the hood of our car much less the traffic ahead of us. And what about drunk drivers ramming into us!
Not only were we concerned about the smoky conditions of the drive home, but we were also worried about our house. Would the roof catch on fire from the aerials in our neighborhood? Would our house still be standing when we got there?
Finally, we decided to spend New Year’s Eve at home. While others are caught up in revelry, we old fogies close all of our windows, turn on the air conditioning, and watch the festivities in New York’s Time Square on TV. Our neighbors love to burn their money, and the noise and smoke are horrific. But the next day, we open our front door and silently thank them for sweeping up the red firecracker rubbish from the street.
When I was a small child, I would jump into bed with my younger brother at the sound of firecrackers exploding, too afraid to sleep alone. Now, my husband and I hug and kiss each other at the stroke of midnight, happy that we lived to see another year in beautiful Hawaii. — gigi
