Last Night on the Vineyard
I think New Year’s Eve is an over rated, made up holiday. An excuse to party to excess and kiss your neighbor’s wife. When I was a kid I got just as excited as the next guy. I wasn’t always cynical. But really, what is there to celebrate? Unless it’s your birthday when midnight arrives, your just one day older, which can be said for 362 other days of the year. If the last year was a bummer you’re glad to see it go, but let’s face it, the next one could be worse. Not to mention all the checks you’ll have to void because--riiight--it’s a new year.
It’s one of those holidays which has great potential but frequently lets you down. There’s so much build up to the big night. Reservations, new outfit, gather enough friends for a big table, the tension of the countdown then--what? A sip of champagne, toot a horn, kiss your husband? Big deal. Let’s face it--unless you stay home--your chances of getting a speeding ticket are greater than any other night of the year. A cop that would let you go any other time, is going to be mad because he’s missing all the fun and you’re not.
My husband and I started spending New Year’s on the Island a few years ago. We had been going off to have a good time with family. Nice home cooked dinner, Dick Clark, trying to keep the grandchildren awake, the ball in Times Square, hitting the sack at 12:01 am. It wasn’t exciting but on the other hand, there was no post holiday let down. Since we were going to be alone here he suggested we look at ads in the Gazette for a festive party at one of the local venues. “Lambert’s Cove is having a party,” I said. “How much?” he asked. “One twenty five a head,” I said. “But they’re gonna have a singer and piano player.” “Sounds nice. I think we should go. Make a reservation,” said he. “It says ‘formal’,” said I.
He immediately went to his closet to try on his old, and I mean old, tuxedo. “It fits,” he said. “Make a reservation.”
When the reservation had been made I asked the fellow on the phone what the ad meant by ‘formal’. He replied that it meant black tie. I said that I just wanted to make sure because here on the Vineyard most people think formal means socks with your sandals. “No, no,” he said without a hint of jocularity. “Black tie means a tuxedo.” He must have put a big red asterisk next to our name in the reservation book because when the gal called back to confirm she made sure we understood that the event was BLACK TIE.
When people asked what we were doing for New Year’s I proudly announced our intentions. My friend Janice asked what dress I was wearing. “Are you kidding? I live on Martha’s Vineyard,” I said. “I don’t own a dress.” The men were required to wear tuxedos. I, on the other hand, could be presentable in velvet pants and a glamorous blouse. Ladies fashions being what they are you can pretty much get away with anything that’s not jeans or sweats. I also suggested to my husband that he wear sneakers with his tuxedo, after all they said black tie not black shoes, but he didn’t think they would appreciate the joke.
So the big night came. I was about as excited as I get when I’m going out to dinner any other night of the year--which my husband would tell you is pretty excited. He always says if you want to see a bunch of happy women, go to a restaurant. The problem was we usually go out for dinner at six but our seating was for eight thirty which is practically my bed time. I hoped I could stay awake for all the festivities, especially after gorging on a splendid three course meal.
The ride to the inn wasn’t too bad except for all those cars being pulled over. Since there was a seating time everyone arrived at once, but the staff was efficient and had us seated with our wine open in short order. Who would have thought there were so many tuxedos on Martha’s Vineyard? They weren’t rentals either because some of them hadn’t been in style since the Kennedy administration. To be fair to the flavor of the Island, most of the other diners were summer people spending the holiday here with friends. I overheard lots of talk about Back Bay parking stickers and the possibility of an increase in T fares.
After a sumptuous meal we were all ushered into the library for the entertainment. I overheard the singer (after she had taken a gander at the crowd) ask the pianist to get out her oldies song book. And, as usual, after an evening of imbibing most of the audience sang along. They did not sound like the all-Island chorus, but then the chorus usually knows all the words. As midnight approached there were horns and noisemakers aplenty as well as silly hats, which my husband and I refused to wear, since we were still sober (booze makes it harder to stay awake).
The count down was noisy and then it was over. I kissed my husband. He said, “Get your coat, and don’t forget the doggie bag.”
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