OPINION: A 1960 New Year’s Eve blizzard and the family tradition we kept

New Year’s Eve 1960 was one holiday dinner I’ll never forget.

My family was living in Westfield, New Jersey, having moved from Long Island five years before. In the wee hours of Dec. 31, a huge sleet-bearing blizzard began to blanket the entire New Jersey-New York corridor. When we awoke that morning, about 8 inches of snow covered the ground, and the streets were snow-packed with a thin layer of ice below.

Tradition called for spending New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn, New York, at my paternal grandparents’ house. The plan was to take the Goethals Bridge — in those days, a two-lane nightmare without a divider — from New Jersey to Staten Island. Then we would travel 11 miles and take the Staten Island Ferry across the Hudson’s Verrazano Narrows to Brooklyn, followed by another 17 miles to my grandparents’ house. We had to be there by 1 p.m., regardless of the weather, as my father and family were expected — a tradition of significant weight.

Well, my mother was having none of that.

She wasn’t keen on risking closed roads, not to mention life and limb, to go to her in-laws’ family get-together all the way in Brooklyn and return in the wee hours of 1962. She convinced Dad that we couldn’t go to Brooklyn; the weather was just too bad. Dad reluctantly walked to the phone, shoulders slumped, to call my grandparents.

Now, you must understand, my father was the first-born of four children and the first to go to college. He commanded respect and admiration beyond his three siblings. My grandparents looked forward to his visits, and Grandma Barbiero cooked special dishes just for him.

My father dialed the number, and my grandfather answered. After painfully explaining the weather situation, my grandfather responded with nine words: “Well, your brother Anthony and sister Sophie are coming.” Aunt Jeanie, the third sibling, lived with my grandparents.

Dad responded with five words: “OK, Pop, we’ll be there.” Dad hung up the phone, turned to my mother, and asked her to get dressed.

So, 30 minutes later, we backed the 1957 Buick Special out of the garage and into the street, tires slipping, then gripping, as we pushed the grey steel monster through the snow. The trip was slow but steady, and miraculously the Staten Island Ferry was still operating. Two-and-a-half hours after leaving home, we arrived at my grandparents’ house.

My grandmother opened the door and welcomed us with her hefty, strong grandma arms. We entered the small living room and basked in the warmth of family and the smells of tomato sauce with meatballs and roasting beef; platters of salami, prosciutto, fresh bread, fennel, and olives waited on the table.

Our coats were taken, hugs and kisses exchanged, and everyone sat down to relax and begin the ritual to usher in the new year. As my father hugged his parents, they looked at him with great pride and love.

That New Year’s was perhaps the best of them all. Everyone was snug and warm in the little house. The young cousins played in the basement; the older cousins talked about new high school adventures. The adults drank homemade wine with seltzer delivered from pressurized blue-glass bottles and enjoyed the feast my grandmother had prepared.

At midnight, we went into the kitchen, grabbed a piece of old china, and threw it out the back door, watching it shatter on the shoveled driveway. This tradition ensured a break with the old and an anticipation of the joy and prosperity waiting for all in the new year.

The snow continued, and we all wound up sleeping at that tiny house. We left the next morning, the first day of 1961.

We knew it was going to be a very good year.

Happy new year.

Victor K. Barbiero, Ph.D., master of health science, lives in Placitas and is a public health professional who has worked for 23 years in over 40 countries with the United States Agency for International Development. He has taught global health at George Washington University and the University of New Mexico since 2004.