Note: The following passages are excerpted from the book “The Hardest Life I Could Ever Love” (pages 342-343), an autobiography penned by Mary Blahnik and extensively edited by Fred Blahnik.
A humongous meal consisting of a roast goose or two ducks, stuffed dressing, and all the other traditional trimmings generally had to be squeezed in sometime between the Rose Bowl Parade and a plethora of college football bowl games which ensued on the first day of a virgin year.
Prior to 1962, those festivities came to our family only via the radio. On New Year’s Eve, Dad inveterately played the card game “Whist” with our children in a determined effort to help them stay awake so they could dutifully “ring in” the New Year with panache and style—not mention a slew of high-calorie snacks!
One bitterly cold New Year’s Eve back at our Austin farm–as the children and Dad sat playing cards, laughing, and munching on food–they would occasionally hear strange sounds emanating from the outdoor porch adjoining our residence. Dad reminded one of the youngsters to check whether the front door was locked; it was. And then around midnight, there came a loud “RAP RAP RAP” on the front door.
A little bit frightening, huh?!!!!
An obviously inebriated man who had been out celebrating early apparently drove into a snow-clogged ditch and his vehicle had become stuck in it, and next the soused sybarite had wandered to the relative shelter of our front porch and encamped there.
Dad firmly demanded of the freezing wastrel, “Who is it?!! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US ANYWAY?!!”
The stranger’s reply: “All I want is to get inside from this freezing cold, sir.”
Dad informed him in no uncertain terms that he best go elsewhere or face grave consequences. Eventually the drunk found his way over to Warner Haney’s place, our close neighbor just down the road. But I must say this: It was a trifle unnerving looking back for those individuals who had been sitting close to our front door–to eerily realize that some unknown, grossly intoxicated miscreant had been lurking on the opposite side of that thin wooden barrier throughout most of the festive evening.
And finally, there was the sinisterly stormy New Year’s Eve of 1968-69. On that particular evening–much to Dad’s understandable dismay–Carolyn and Dorothy joined some of their friends on a trek up to Rochester to celebrate and usher in the New Year. Dad and I grudgingly resigned ourselves to the folly and intransigence of youth, and then commenced the nerve-wracking task of awaiting the wayward pair’s return.
The northwest wind outside our door howled menacingly, endless snow fell from blackened skies and blew uninhibited, the temperature continued to nosedive into obscenely uncharted territory.…..and still no sign of the adventuresome twosome. Meanwhile, the clock hanging on our kitchen wall just kept ticking and ticking away, and Dad and I felt like we were being subjected to a water torture session……..
A considerable spell after midnight, a snowplow forged southward through the preposterously clogged roadway…….and shortly thereafter a carful of young revelers swerved unevenly into our driveway…….
All of the occupants were in dire need of bathroom privileges, since they had been sitting in their car for an outrageously long period of time waiting for one snow plow to pull out another which had become hopelessly stuck in a Brobdingnagian snowdrift, and I am quite certain none of the youthful frolickers had abstained from drinking liquor that New Year’s Eve—horrible weather be damned!
My memory mostly centers on the torrent of questions the quizzical young people asked about a small number of milk cans brimming with baling twine we had sitting in our kitchen that winter. Since we were desperately short of firewood that year, discarded hay twine would serve as the fuel for our woodstove in preparing our sumptuous New Year’s repast the following day.
After 1962, we enjoyed the luxury of watching the Rose Bowl parade and New Year’s Day football bowl games on our “new” black-and-white television. What an extraordinary blessing it was for Dad to be able to watch and savor how most of the rest of the world lived, after all those years of virtual seclusion stuck on a primitive backwoods farmstead sans electricity…
Fred's Soapbox 