Ringing In the New Year

I’d never seen anything like it—a brightly lit, ball-like shape bobbing down the pole at the top of the building as the crowd on the television grew louder in their excitement. The host of the broadcast, whom I recognized from a popular music show that aired each Saturday on television, was counting backward as the ball descended. As it reached the bottom, an illuminated sign spread the message in sync with Dick Clark: "Happy New Year!" I wasn’t very old, but the experience was memorable, and I’ve stayed up to watch the ball drop in New York, waited another hour, and rang in the New Year every year since.

As a youngster, New Year’s Eve often meant a trip to the movie theater with Mom and Dad’s best friends, Wayne and Martha White. There always seemed to be a good family movie, like Freaky Friday, The Shaggy D.A., or 101 Dalmatians. Back home, my sister Debbie, brother Bill, and the White’s two kids, Kirby and Lori, were hosting a New Year’s party. I looked forward to the day when I could host a New Year’s celebration of my own.

We finished the basement around the time I was in fifth grade. That was the same year our class began attending school in the school building at Hopkins. As the holidays approached, I asked if friends could come over to ring in the New Year. With guidelines in place and a limit on the number of guys to invite, Mom and Dad obliged, and a new tradition began.

The game plan was straightforward: we’d have pizza for supper, and there would still be plenty of other food, snacks, and 2-liter bottles of soda to feed a small army. Cards and board games were on hand, and we’d also rent a VCR and several movies from Movie Magic in Maryville. Other than going upstairs for provisions, we contained ourselves to the basement, which was probably good considering the level of noise a group of young boys was generating.

After counting down to midnight, more movies, storytelling, and mischief would follow. I remember sharing ghost stories that usually timed out to the same moment the floorboards upstairs would creak, creating the effect of someone walking across the floor. Some ventured upstairs to check if it was Mom or Dad. After finding them sound asleep, some were left wondering if the house might be haunted.

Eventually, sleeping bags would be unrolled, and the army of young men would settle in on the floor. The electric fireplace added warmth and a cozy glow, its artificial rotating log casting flickering light across the room.

Waking up in the morning, we’d be greeted by the smell of breakfast in the air. In addition to eggs and bacon, Mom always fixed blueberry pancakes—a crowd favorite. Parents would arrive to take my friends home, marking the close of the fun-filled celebration. While we hated to see the fun end, we knew we’d be seeing each other again in a few days back at school.

This routine continued through the remainder of my time in school. Each year, as I watch the ball descend in Times Square, I’m reminded of those simpler celebrations with friends—ringing in the New Year with less noise but just as much celebration. It’s a reminder that while traditions evolve, the heart of celebrating remains the same.

Tom Brand, a native of Hopkins, Missouri, graduated from North Nodaway High School and attended the University of Missouri. He spent 19 years as a farm broadcaster at KMA and KFEQ radio, 12 years as Executive Director of the National Association of Farm Broadcasting (NAFB), and is currently the director of the St. Joseph Community Alliance. Tom enjoys writing about the memories and traditions that connect family and friends through the years. He and his wife, Beth, live in St. Joseph.