(Originally published in The Plain Talker, January 2006)
I've never been one of those "Happy New Year!" people. I guess I never understood what the celebration was about. If it had been a good year I didn't want to see it end, and if it had been a bad year I didn't want to do anything to remind myself of it, including celebrating its end.
Plus, the parties always seemed lame. I mean, come on; Dick Clark has been old for 75 years, and yet he's the guy people look to for a "rockin'" good time? Please. Heck, the highlight of his early New Years specials was Barry Manilow's yearly rendition of the world's only "I hate New Years" song; if Barry Manilow is the highlight, are we really talking "good time?"
For many years, New Years signified the end of not only the year, but of Christmas vacation as well; it's hard to celebrate anything when you know that school is just around the corner. About the only thing I liked about New Years was the football; great bowl games on New Years Eve, and then even more on New Years Day. But now even that has been taken away.
But I think that I'll definitely be celebrating the end of 2005; it has been a terrible year, and I will be glad to see it go.
The trouble started in March, when we got "the letter" and learned that our cabin, my favorite place in the world, my safe haven for all the years of my life, was going to be taken from us. The next three months were a series of tiny ups and tremendous downs: we would see some light at the end of the tunnel ("We can afford this lot!") only to be poked in the eye with a sharp stick ("Of course, we can't build on it because it's vertical.") We considered moving to cabin, only to learn that it was considered inappropriate for any of the available lots on the lake because it was too small or not "architecturally interesting." And then we were told we couldn't move it anyway, because doing so would involve the cutting of a tree.
"But, this tree will be cut to make this lot suitable for building, and you know it," we told the guy from Russell Lands; he agreed, but said "no" to moving the cabin anyway. (Don't try to follow their logic; if you can't you just get frustrated, and if you can you should be scared.)
While we were searching for a new place on the lake-- one we could afford, which was hard to find, and one that didn't assault our love of everything that makes the lake great, which was even harder--- my wife's cat died. He was nineteen years old, and hopelessly devoted to her; though we knew it was coming, the reality of it didn't hurt any less.
We did eventually find a new cabin, so all is not lost; the headaches associated with the new place are enough for a story-- or several-- down the road. At any rate, any joy the new place could have brought was diminished on July 4th, when I learned that my mother wasn't feeling well, and was being checked into the hospital the next day. Thus began the July from Hell; I spent the entire month away from home and the lake, helping to take care of things in Birmingham while my mother was hospitalized. On the 23rd of the month I learned that one of my dogs, my best friends and constant companions for 13 years, had cancer; two days later, my mother passed away, which by itself would have been enough to make it a very bad summer.
Barely a month later, the magazine I used to write for decided that my wishes-- not to mention the law-- meant nothing, and they included an "apology" (their word; it was really just a PR piece) that they wrote into a story that I had written, a story about my mother. That concluded a volatile three-week period that can be boiled down to this: I said "Don't do that;" they said "We will if we want to;" I said "The law says otherwise, and I'll be extremely angry if you do;" they said "OK, we won't;" and then they did it anyway. (The full story is available at www.savelakemartin.com/lml.htm.)
While arguing with that magazine, I was also trying to move out of the old cabin and into the new one, all the while trying to deal with my mother's death, and everything that that brought to the table. "Surely things will calm down and get better," I kept telling myself. "They have to, right?"
No they don't. Death visited again in September, when one of my wife's best friends passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. She had to break into his house and was with him when the paramedics arrived, though by then it was too late; in less than four months she had been present at the passing of three figures who figured prominently in her life: her cat, my mother and now her friend.
Now, it is two weeks before the end of the year, two days before the deadline for this story, one week before Christmas. My dog, the one diagnosed with cancer back in July, defied expectations and was quite happy and active for several months following her diagnosis. In the last few days, though, she took a dramatic turn for the worse, and tonight she lost the fight. With as much letting go as I've had to do this year you'd think it would get easier, but it doesn't; in fact, it just gets harder, and being able to prepare for the inevitable doesn't help.
Happy New Year? No. But Good Riddance, 2005. I hope we never see a year like you again; I'm sure people in New Orleans, Gulfport, and other Gulf Coast towns will agree.