Whatever they may bring, we welcome new years

By SHIELA STOLL

© St. Petersburg Times, published December 26, 2000

No more centennial-year stuff, except from the purists who say we should have our millennial hangovers Monday morning. Whatever I forgot I can keep forgetting for another year, such as updating the old Christmas card list.

Every summer, when I hear from a friend with a change of address, I vow to put it in the seasonal list. In early December I'm cursing, plowing through piles of paper, trying to find the envelope I saved for the list.

There is another annual problem I don't know how to deal with; it happens more frequently as the years go by. I hear from a number of people only once a year, usually during the holidays. Then one year, there's no card. What happened?

When I was younger, I figured they got tired of wasting the postage on someone they heard from only once a year. Now, other possibilities loom. In 1994, I sent nary a greeting; my late husband died the day after Christmas. I didn't want to send cards that said: "Happy holidays, and, by the way, my husband is dying."

Now, when an expected card fails to arrive, I worry. I know that some of my friends have had health problems. I send holiday greetings, but I fear that they may be opened by a relative because my friend is in bad shape or worse. I think maybe I should call, but I don't want to. If someone calls me or writes with the bad news, I know how to respond, but I don't want to call. I'm chicken.

Rather than taking personal responsibility for finding out whether there's bad news, I muse about alternative holiday cards. Maybe next year I could send some that say, "Hope the New Year finds you above ground."

How about a card with a check-off list and a self-addressed, stamped envelope enclosed? Check one:

The dog ate my address book.

The nursing home screens my mail. You're not on the list.

I forgot, okay? I do that a lot these days.

It's the medication. I can't seem to. . . .

I'm moving to Nevada, my cat channels Dr. Laura, and I was a nun/warrior in seventh century Ireland.

Who are you, and why are you stalking me?

No flowers please. A contribution to the Foundation for the Prevention and Cure of Globner's Disease will be happy to accept your contribution in remembrance of. . . .

A whole new year is about to burst upon the scene.

I don't believe in omens; if I did, I would have gone into hibernation. In summer of 1999, my new Darling Husband asked where I'd like to be at the dawn of the new millennium.

"In Switzerland, looking up at the glaciers on the Jungfrau."

It seemed romantic in August. We made the plans, got the reservations. We flew to Switzerland on Dec. 28. It was a very long flight. Then on to the Jungfrau by train. The entire journey was made in the confined company of people desperately ill with European flu. They coughed, sneezed and gasped their way to our destination, determined to hit the Swiss ski slopes. (Flu shots given in the United States have no effect against that flu.)

We had reservations at a fancy hotel for dinner and the millennial celebration. We went formal. We took the tux and the boiled shirt. We forgot the studs. Darling Husband looked elegant in a white turtleneck with a bow tie and his tux. I wore a long, slinky, sequin-covered gown. We trudged through the snow to the hotel, me in my moon boots, carrying the painful, pretty shoes in a backpack.

Seated in the swanky dining room, we enjoyed munching the lovely dinner rolls until I discovered a piece of one of my front caps lodged in the bread.

Oh, well, everyone was drinking Champagne. If I didn't smile widely, no one would notice. I hid the broken cap in my purse.

After dinner, the servers brought around party favors to each table: miniature rockets. You light the wick, and they explode decorously, then little noisemakers, streamers and goodies issue forth. Terrific, except that in lighting the wick, Darling Husband ignited the tablecloth. Thinking quickly and not wanting to waste expensive Champagne, I beat out the flames with my napkin: more charred linen.

We trudged back to our condo, looked up at the amazing illumination of the Jungfrau put on for the millennial occasion, changed clothes and joined friends down in the village for more toasts to the new century. I tried not to smile.

On Jan. 1, both of us came down with the killer flu from hell.

It has been a great year; not without setbacks, though I still don't believe in omens. Life is a rich pageant. Happy new year!

- Write to Sheila Stoll at PMB #309, 7904 E Chaparral Road, Scottsdale, AZ 85250.

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