Every year, as the New Year approaches I reminisce about New Year’s Eves past. A few wonderful year end celebrations immediately come to mind, but the most outstanding was New Year’s Eve 1968.
I was young, six months newlywed, and had recently moved to New York with my husband. He was a freshly discharged airman first class and a native New Yorker. So, when I said that we should go to Times Square on New Year’s Eve, his been-there-done-that persona kicked in and he suggested that instead of spending an evening crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with a multitude of revelers the two of us could enjoy a candlelight dinner in our own Brooklyn neighborhood. “But it’s free and there are no tickets required,” I mildly protested. He then did what any loving husband would do, he caved.
On December 31, we ate dinner, then layered up and headed for Times Square, where we spent time hand-in-hand, blithely walking around looking like love struck tourists, and trying to keep warm. At around 11 PM he suggested we