New Year's Eve 2006

New Year's Eve is overrated. Now, of course, I didn't always think this way. In fact, New Year's Eve was fun for me for majority of my 20's. I remember one year at a party in Massapequa with friends from work, the year where it hit 60 degrees in the City and I spent the evening with Jeorjie and Debbie at Gus and Lindsay's apartment across from Daniel's on the Upper East Side. We sat on the front stoop and watched the rich and famous arrive and leave in limos and gowns for their glamorous party at the upscale boite. There was one year when Deb and I just went to dinner and watched the ball drop from her Upper West Side apartment, and then chatted with Jeorjie who was in Sydney and had celebrated nearly a day earlier. There was the year after a huge snowstorm, when my car was the only one on the block to be shoveled out, and as I made my way to the vehicle to drive to the party on Long Island, discovered that my tire had been stolen. I must have scared the guys because they actually left the jack underneath the car and, when I called the cops to come and dust the jack for prints, they laughed and said it would be a really long time until they could send a cop car to investigate. Yeah, I know, they were busy with the donuts and toasts on New Year's Eve. We never did file a police report and I had to wake up my Dad to take care of changing the tire, which we did in the freezing cold and by the time we were done it was well past midnight and all I wanted to do was pass out. There was New Year's Eve 2000 when I had pneumonia; I listened to the fireworks from my bed in the basement and, in my fever induced delerium, talked to a huge, black tarantula that kept me company for most of the night.

With the good, there was the bad, and I enjoyed most of my pleasant New Year's Eve experiences. I never did any of the Bangitout parties because I wasn't really interested in shelling out that kind of cash for booze I would never end up finishing and then have to deal with trying to find a cab back to my apartment early in the morning. I was willing to give New Year's Eve another try, after a long slew of disappointing events (I've never had a boyfriend over New Year's, so I was kissing no one special when the ball dropped) and that's when we got the call about my Zaydie (ZT"L).

I lived with Zaydie for almost 3 years and, in January 2002, moved out of the apartment to my own place on the UWS. I regret that I didn't get to go down to the LES to visit him more often, but I called him every week and did manage to make it to the store from time to time. The December before he passed away, he decided to go down to Florida to visit my Aunt and escape the cold. A few days into the trip, he was rushed to the hospital with severe internal organ failure. That December 30th, we got a call from Florida saying that if we wanted to say goodbye to him, we should fly down ASAP.

And that's how I found myself at 5:00 p.m. on New Year's Eve, sitting with Cousin Neil in the Jet Blue terminal at JFK airport. We were scheduled to land at Ft. Lauderdale airport well before Midnight, and we both calculated that we would already be at the hotel on South Beach when the New Year rang in. My folks and brother had flown down earlier that morning and were already asleep before our plane touched down in the sunshine state, my two sisters left their husbands home to fly for the day from Maryland, and Cousin Neil and I were on our way to pick up the Corolla rental car at Enterprise when we pulled in past a gorgeous, gray Jaguar. Cousin Neil asked if we could upgrade and, since our Grandfather was on his death bed, I thought if the flashier car would make him happy then it was worth the money. Cousin Neil drove from the airport to our hotel, which was the official hotel of one of the Orange Bowl teams and therefore packed with college kids getting drunk, hooking up and getting ready for the big game on New Years Day. The lobby looked like an entire orange grove threw up in it and we parked the car and picked our way past horny co-eds towards the elevator. At the last minute, we were lucky to even find these rooms. Everyone who was coming, except for my cousin and his girlfriend who were skiing at Jackson Hole and were slated to arrive two hours after us, were already upstairs and sleeping.

I checked into my room, careful not to wake my sleeping brother who was also really sick and had downed a shot of Nyquill hours earlier. My sisters were still up so I made my way towards their room and we chatted in the surreal environment about nothing and everything. When the brothers in laws called them on their cell phones, I excused myself and decided to pick up some water and a box of cookies at the drugstore across the street. I also picked up a pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights and, instead of wandering on the boardwalk (to this day, I don't even think I walked outside of the hotel towards the beach or boardwalk, it just never occured to me to go looking for a pool to sit by) I sat on the one bench on the hotel porch and lit up my smoke. Halfway through the cigarette, with thoughts of my Grandfather rushing through my head, the fireworks boomed and lit up the night sky. The noise surprised me, I honestly had forgotten it was New Year's Eve, and I jerked my head up to try to catch the show but it was obscured by the hotel. The two parking attendants, who were standing in front of the building on duty, both eyed me warily before one wished me a Happy New Year. He walked up the steps and shook my hand, wishing me all the best, and then I handed him a cigarette, lit it for him, and wished him one as well. I think I might have told him that my Grandfather was going to die in the New Year and I don't remember his reaction, I was alone seconds later. I kept ruminating on the fact that My Zaydie was dying and that I was in South Beach, on New Year's Eve, because he was going to die. As people drank shots and kissed each other on the beach, he was in pain.

I spent a few hours on New Year's day in his hospital room, patting his hand, brushing my fingers over his high, cool, alabaster forehead that was remarkeably smooth for his 90 years. I repositioned his yarmulka a couple of times, and then Cousin Neil would move it around again, so that at one point it slouched over his eyes and made it seem like he was a yeshiva bocher taking a nap, hiding his eyes from the glare of the hospital lights in his big, black kippa. When Zaydie was lucid, he said few words, told us he was thirsty and asked for water, which we could give him by allowing him to suck on the sponge contraption that was attached to a straw. They had removed majority of his stomach and intestines, so drinking water wasn't going to go anywhere. I argued that the man was thirsty, which was evident as he pulled on the sponge with his still strong mouth and tried to squeeze every last drop like a man who was dehydrated. We ended up leaving a few minutes later but the nurse promised she would continue to give him water in that fashion, while we were away. I purposely left the cup and sponge tilted against the wall of the windowsill when we left and, was devestated to find that it was still in that position when we returned. She had never given him water like she promised. I still regret that we left that room that day, because Zaydie asked for water the second we returned, and Cousin Neil and I took turns dipping the sponge into the cup and putting it into his mouth like a mother nourishing a child.

Zaydie passed away 15 days later, and was buried on Martin Luther Kings Day. And thus was born a new tradition for me on New Year's Eve. I choose to remember my Zaydie on New Year's Eve over a good meal, as he was a man who really loved food, and with family, as he was a man who absolutely loved his family. This New Year's Eve, given the time difference, I will be picking up the phone at Midnight and calling my family in the States to wish them all well, and to chat a bit about Zaydie. In Zaydie's honor, I will break my fast this evening not by scarfing down a bowl of cereal, but over a real meal complete with some Challah (his favorite type of bread). I'm going to log into the Wall Street Journal website, as he enjoyed reading the stock pages each morning over breakfast, and cook myself an egg the way he taught me how to make it. And then, when I'm finished eating, I'm going to clean my pan the way Zaydie taught me, which is how the Chinamen in the old neighborhood by the store used to do it.



This is last photo I ever took of Zaydie (click on the pic and you will be able to see it better, not sure why it scanned in like this but I've got a new scanner and am still learning), who passed away four months after his 92nd birthday. A few of his Grandchildren took him out to Noah's Ark on the Lower East Side and the entire restaurant cheered him on and applauded as he blew out the candles on his cakes. It was a wonderful night, and a great celebration of his life. At Midnight, will e-mail the image and the link to this blog entry to all who loved him.

Hope everyone who is celebrating this evening has a very safe, and Happy New Year!