I knew this guy in college—during my first stint, in the mid-70’s in New Paltz, NY. We had a bunch of friends in common, had one class together (Communes & Alternate Technologies—worst class I ever attended), and used to hang out at P&G’s for their Friday happy hour. At some point he decided to bail and head out west, and I attended his going-away party. He had no forwarding address or phone number but took my address (this was in the day before email or cell phones, kiddies). I got a letter from him at one point, and replied. And that’s how our cross-country correspondence began. At one point he told me he’d toast me with a trans-continental shot of Jack Daniels at midnight on New Year’s Eve, and a new tradition was born.

We each criss-crossed the country a couple of times. He’d be in Phoenix and I’d be in New Paltz; I’d be in California and he’d be on Long Island; I’d come back east for a vacation at the same time he’d go out west for the same. The first time we ever had a New Year’s Eve on the same coast, he was married and had a baby and I tagged along with his new family to a party in Yonkers. But otherwise the trans-continental shots continued, accompanied by a phone call at midnight east coast time, or some time in the days before or after.

He moved with his family to California, and lived an hour or two from me, where a second child was born. They joined my crowd of friends in the Bay Area for occasional festivities, and I made the drive out to the valley for the occasional visit with them. Of course, we always tried to celebrate New Year’s Eve together.

They eventually moved back east to be closer to family, and the tradition of trans-continental shots was revived. I visited them once when I was in DC for a business trip, and he and his wife would always look me up if they were back out west on business. After a few years, they divorced, and the next time I saw my friend from college he was a bachelor once again. He came out west to spend the turn of the millennium with me. We took a spur-of-the-moment drive 800 miles or so up to North Bend, WA, to visit some friends of mine. They had a house with a view of Mount Si. We stopped at the diner in town and had a damn good piece of cherry pie.

We never had another trans-continental shot of Jack Daniels after that New Year’s Eve. Instead, I moved back east within the year, and finally convinced the knucklehead to marry me last fall.

We drink better whiskey now (Elijah Craig is the current favorite), and we celebrate it together, here in Durham. I’d like to raise a toast to that cute guy with the long hair who expanded my zymotic knowledge when he’d order the pitchers of “dark beer” at P&G’s. Who continues to surprise me, enrich me, enthrall me and amuse me year in and year out.

Happy new year, Barry.

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