A New Year’s Day Story

from Mt Olive January 2022

NY Starz

From the days of my early childhood on through my senior year of high school, we would always spend a good porti on of New Year’s Day at my maternal grandparents’ home in Boonton. The home was a two-story, yellow brick farmhouse that proudly stood on the 600 block of Boonton Avenue. A stone wall proudly stood on the edge of the enti re front yard, just about a foot from the sidewalk. It was a most majesti c stone wall with a level, concrete top.

I so dearly remember the big feasts of New Year’s Day at my maternal grandparents’ home. My mom was the youngest of nine children. The house would abound with aunts and uncles and cousins. It was a joyous ti me, a ti me of innocence. It was a ti me when most people sti ll had black and white television sets, there were no microwave ovens, no laptop computers, and no cell phones.

Grandma, Mom, my sister Patti , my aunts, and my girl cousins would all somehow manage to fi t into Grandma’s kitchen and would be busy cooking the big New Year’s Day feast. The men would be huddled around Grandpa’s litt le black and white television set, watching football games. I know how chauvinist this all sounds, but it was just the way it was back in the 1950’s and 1960’s.

The ti ming of the feast was always a bit of a puzzling thing to me. We would all eat at about 3:00 in the aft ernoon. So, the big feast was either a late lunch or an early supper, depending upon how you looked at it.

Grandpa Kemmerer and I had a most wonderful and magical bond. We were both drummers. I had started playing the drums when I was in fourth grade. I was in my school band from fourth grade on through all of my ti me at Boonton High School. Through the years, I had quite a few of drum teachers and band leaders. But, I learned the most about the art of being a fi ne percussionist from my Grandpa K.

There comes a moment in ti me, in everyone’s life, when they look at the things, the places, then nooks and crannies that they have looked at a million and one ti mes, but in one solitary moment see in an enti rely diff erent array of colors, meanings, and abounding depth. Such a moment came to me when I was 14 years old and in my freshman year at Boonton High School.

Unbeknown to me, Grandpa K had gone to a football game at Boonton High, with a few of his fellow volunteer fi remen. Grandpa saw me play the big bass drum during the half-ti me show. It was in the midst of New Year’s Day of 1968, that Grandpa K shared a sacred moment with me.

It was New Year’s Day 1968. As Grandpa K sat in his easy chair, surrounded by his sons, sons-in-law, and grandchildren, he took a look at his watch. The football game on the old black and white television had mostly everyone hypnoti zed.

“Well, here it is two o’clock in the aft ernoon. I bett er check on old Mickey,” Grandpa announced to everyone. Old Mickey was Grandpa’s beloved beagle, who had a most elaborate pen and doghouse in Grandpa’s backyard.

I remember this moment all so well. Grandpa unceremoniously arose from

Grandpa K and his charming smile, that I remember, oh so well.

his comfortable chair, walked into the kitchen, and came out with a big aluminum bowl, fi lled with dry dog food. Grandpa looked down at the dry dog food as if it were tea leaves left at the bott om of a teacup, fi lled with fortune telling properti es.

“Richie, you wanna help me feed Old Mickey?” Grandpa called out to me.

“Sure thing, Grandpa,” I responded.

Grandpa and I put our coats on, walked out the side door of the old Kemmerer Homestead and began the walk down the gravel driveway to Old Mickey’s doghouse. I think that Old Mickey had the most elaborate setup that any dog could ever imagine. It was a large, gated area, with a big shed in one corner of the gated area. Grandpa had cut out a litt le doorway for Old Mickey to come in and out of the shed. A piece of canvas hung over the litt le opening, so that the cold air would not intrude upon the warmth inside Old Mickey’s walk-in doghouse.

Old Mickey’s tail wildly wagged as he saw Grandpa and I walk down the driveway. Grandpa opened up the gate door, we walked into Old Mickey’s domain. Dear Old Mickey jumped wildly onto Grandpa, unti l Grandpa put down the metal bowl and Old Mickey begin eati ng his early supper. Grandpa pett ed Old Mickey, then began walking to Old Mickey’s shed. I followed my beloved grandfather.

To my surprise, Grandpa grabbed a big, oversized bass drum mallet. He looked at the drum mallet with a certain sad refl ecti on pouring from his eyes. The big, pot belly stove

My grandfather, Edmund C. Kemmerer, and myself when I was a boy, standing on the sidewalk, just outside of the old Kemmerer Homestead on Boonton Avenue.

in the middle of the shed, warmed us both.

“Richie, I’ve had this old bass drum mallet more years than I can recall. I want you to have it,” Grandpa gently told me.

I was lost for words. I could tell that the old bass mallet meant a lot to my dear grandfather. I thanked my grandfather for the endearing gift . I held the drum mallet in my hand, holding back my tears. For I knew, deep in my heart that my grandfather had just passed on something to me that he dearly cherished.

As we walked out of the shed, Grandpa hearti ly pett ed Old Mickey. We walked out of Old Mickey’s big, gated area and began our walk up the long driveway to the side door of the endearing Kemmerer Homestead. Smoke ascended from the brick chimney atop the roof of the yellow brick home.

“You’re a good drummer,” Grandpa said to me. Holding back my tears, I clenched the handle of Grandpa’s precious bass drum mallet with my right hand.

“Thank you, Grandpa,” I simply replied.

Over 50 years have come and gone since that wonderful, memorable New Year’s Day of 1968. Now at 68, I return in memory to that litt le, modest home atop Boonton Avenue. I would give everything I own to go back in ti me, for just one hour, to relive those precious and endearing memories.

Richard Mabey Jr. is a freelance writer. He can be reached at richardmabeyjr@ hotmail.com. Please put on the subject line: My Life Publicati ons.