December 31, 2004 Remembering the Millennium New Year

I recently found that my neighbour Bernadette Kerr who faithfully deciphers my scrawl and types my articles each week is a closet writer.  Besides working in a physiotherapist’s office, running her preserve business, regularly singing and playing music, recording her genealogical research and family history, hatching and raising poultry, chairing our Community Policing Committee and our big conference in May and volunteering at Eastholme she also writes when she can.  I asked for a sample of her work and she gave me a piece she wrote about her Millennia New Years Eve party 5 years ago.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. 

The Demise of #5 – or How We Greeted the New Millennium

Do you remember where you were New Year’s Eve, 1999? 

Leading up to Y2K people were purchasing generators and other emergency items and stocking their shelves with non-perishable food items.  At the same time many were also planning celebrations that would be memorable, outlandish, stupendous, or extravagant.  I was not to be outdone.  However, in my typical fashion, I had to find a way to mark the occasion that just might raise eyebrows but that would be intriguing enough to get my young adult children home for the holidays. 

My plan was in place. 

Over the years a tradition had developed for the celebration of New Year’s Eve at the west end of Maple Road in Chisholm Township.  Our usual locale for celebration was the home of my husband’s sister who lives just up the road.  Larry’s brother and his wife were regular houseguests.  Our friends Don and Trudy were regular holiday guests as well.  This year was to be an exception, as the out-of-towners were both Chief Warrant Officers in the military, and would be required to stay near their homes and workplaces in case disaster struck.  They missed out. 

We were ready.  My son, daughter and her boyfriend were all home; my two young nephews were also sticking near home, as well as one of their girlfriends.  Young Don’s friend Tyler was phoning regularly trying to convince him to go to his house in North Bay.  The third time Tyler called, he was begging.  ‘My Dad said he’d even drive down to get you.  Come on up.”  Finally young Don had to explain.  “Listen, Tyler, I don’t want to come.  We’ve got plans.  My Aunt Bernie’s burning ‘Number Five’, the outhouse, you know, the old shitter….” Over which we could hear Tyler yelling to his father “ Start the car Dad, I’m going to Powassan….” 

The little wooden block that formed the outhouse door closer was cut it into pieces and made into Christmas Tree ornaments.

About 9:30pm (after Tyler had safely arrived) we assembled around the sacrifice.  Now, you’d think a dried out, well seasoned, caved-in, falling down outhouse that was only partially buried in snow would light up in an instant and burn down in a flash.  Not so.  Try as we might, we just could not get that sucker to burn.  Finally, we raided the woodpile for some nice dry wood, built a fire inside the outhouse, and eventually it gave in and decided to burn.  Dave’s girlfriend was the only one to partake of hot dogs and marshmallows.  We celebrated with hot drinks, carol singing, and lots of laughter.  By 11:55 we had nothing left but a pile of coals.  With a flashlight shining on someone’s watch we waiting impatiently for midnight. 

It came.  It went.  Nothing happened.  Almost dejectedly we dispersed to our respective houses, and settled in for the night. 

A disappointing end to what should have been an exciting evening?  Perhaps.  However, later on that night, we awoke to what sounded like a super-sized snowplow heading right for our house.  Everything was shaking, dishes were rattling in the cupboards, and the grandfather clock was bonging.  Had North Bay’s Bo-Mark site been bombed?  Had all the dire predictions of Y2K come true?  Was the world ending?  Had we let that outhouse burn right down to hell? 

Nope.  EARTHQUAKE!  The icing on the cake. 

Some of the people who attended this celebration have moved on - there are new girlfriends and boyfriends – and some who had to be elsewhere have ensured not missing future escapades by retiring and moving into the neighbourhood.  None will forget how that New Year was greeted.  Why was the outhouse called “Number 5”?  My father-in-law and a life-long friend of his had attended school together in the Toronto area at Public School #5.  So when this friend Don and his wife Babs came north to spend their holidays, in addition to carving peach pits into light pulls and writing poems about rats in the well, Don named the outhouse.  And just to be sure that old #5 will never be forgotten I saved the little wooden block that formed the door closer, cut it into pieces and made Christmas Tree ornaments.  Each of the my husband’s siblings has one – another little piece of their family history, and a reminder of this new Millenium being welcomed - Maple Road style.