A way out here in west Texas, we welcomed in the new year with more bass than bang, more fiddling than fireworks, a dash of drink and a dribble of dancing.  Realize, please, that in doing so, Jim and I broke with recent tradition. Last year, we stayed home, using a six-inch snowfall as our excuse for being fuddy-duds; the year before, we went to bed at ten without even weather to excuse us. This year, we decided to go for broke and to celebrate at Sutler's Club, a small room upstairs in the historic Limpia Hotel in downtown Fort Davis where our good friend Jim Hall was scheduled to play his bass guitar with Todd Jagger and J.R. (whose surname I still don't know), a credible trio known far and wide as "the Border Blasters".  A loyal bunch of Jim Hall groupies from the Presbyterian Church planned to attend; we coaxed our fellow fuddy-duds and cohorts in adventure, Nelda and Jerry Miles to accompany us on this one.

We honestly had no idea what to expect. For two weeks, I tried to discover the dinner menu (was there a buffet? a choice? a fixed selection? If so, would it be fancy and weird?). I inquired as to the cost, the time the band started playing. Stuff partygoers sometimes feel the need to know prior to the big event.  No one could give me a glimmer of a hint. Likely this was partially due to the absence of the owners, Joe and Lanna Duncan (more friends, also members of Jim Hall's dedicated Presbyterian following) who, with son Malcolm, spent their holidays skiing in New England. But part of the charm of small town life is spontaneity. Had this been my first taste of local event scheduling, I might've panicked and cancelled our reservations.  But here, things just have a way of working out without the constrictions of overplanning.  I put my trust in history, then convinced Jim and the Miles that we'd have a good time, regardless of the details and any (unanticipated) large sum of money involved. 

Lest you assume that we've never kicked up our heels on New Year's Eve before, let me be clear: This was not our first rodeo. We'll always smile, remembering dancing the night away with the Brands and the Bushes at that hundred-year-old, one-room schoolhouse somewhere near Richland Springs, deep in the heart of Texas. But that simple celebration was the exception. In over three decades of marriage, my husband and I have, on more than one occasion, royally celebrated the eve of the new year in Las Vegas, NV, first at the old Caesar's Palace, years later at the Bellagio, every time enjoying VIP guest status (through no merit of our own).  We've celebrated at the tree-lit Polo Lounge while staying in a bungalow at the very pink Beverly Hills Hotel.  (From this extravagant experience, I learned that I am not cut out to live in southern California, nor do I especially enjoy shopping on Rodeo Drive.) I can't remember if we were ever in Fort Lauderdale or in Manhattan for New Year's Eve.  I block things like that out. Most years, we spent in Aspen, which is not a bad place to be except when everyone else and the Kennedys are in residence there.
 
Feeling envious? Don't! Being there, wherever there was, was how we earned our keep for a lot of years. Jim flew corporate jets for thirty-four years; for seventeen of those, I copiloted for him. We've seen our share of grand rooms strewn with drunken strangers swinging from chandeliers. The last New Year's eve we spent in Aspen, we cancelled our coveted dinner reservations at the last minute in favor of ordering pizza delivered to our hotel room—we didn't think we could stomach dining out again with the rude mob, however elegantly attired. So this year, with trepidation, we decided to risk officially celebrating New Year's Eve with friends and in our chosen location.  No matter the menu, no matter the cost. (We knew the music and the company would be terrific!)

Jim wore jeans, but did change shirts. He kept his scuffed suede nerd shoes on because his hip was only four weeks our of surgery, and he was afraid if he wore boots, then asked me to remove them, I might pull his leg off. I wore velvet, not because there was a dress code but because there wasn't. Jerry came straight from work. Nelda had flown across Texas all day; she looked Texas-chic in a stunningly simple white blouse and turqoise choker. Our fellow partygoers wore sequined silk; casual sweaters; denim. Whatever they wanted to wear, worked. In Big Bend country, you are who you are. Clothes can't change that. (Just ask the elk in the picture below how much difference that festoon of confetti really makes in one's life.)


Nelda and Party Elk.  (Her husband Jerry in the foreground.)

Dinner was both very reasonably priced ($30 per person) and also, delicious. There was a choice after all, and I chose herbed salmon. We had to buy a club membership to order drinks. That's standard in this area. We had to buy one because we so rarely go into town at night, unless it's to hike by starlight. No one at our table drank excessively... no one in the room drank excessively, although the rather senior citizen who spent so much time draping the much-younger gal over his body on the dance floor surely wished for some strong spirits on awakening the next morning.  The Border Blasters played their brand of "Texas Music" at a volume conducive to both toe-tapping and the conversation that kept us all awake long after our usual bedtimes. We joked with Jan Hall (Jim Hall's long-legged blonde and chief groupie) while Jim's music played on. 


Smokin' Jim Hall of the Border Blasters.

The small frame room held perhaps a dozen tables, plus the groupies' couch and the short bar on which the younger set (who haven't yet enjoyed hip replacements) leaned. There was room to spontaneously stand and two-step when the music called to you, and at the stroke of midnight, Jim and I pressed a little flesh and did a little slow-dancing, sans cane.

     
My man Jim, ex-jet pilot wears his party favor.   Bookfeller Jerry wears his party favor.

                   I didn't say no one drank. I said no one drank excessively.

       
Fellow Musician & Hall groupie Margie Ferguson
          Nelda Miles crowned with official hat by her honey Jerry.

New Year's Eve 2008 at Sutler's Bar in the Limpia Hotel was a far cry from the martini bar at the Bellagio, or from the cigar bar at the Hotel Jerome, my favorite Aspen hangout except that I can't take the smoke. (Sutlers was smoke-free.) I even ignored my aversion to bodily contact with strangers to let that AARP-aged dance floor contortonist give me a midnight hug. We all wished each other well and went home into the sub-freezing night illuminated by a Dipper so big and bright, it will surely pour good things all year.

  
 
Chief Groupie Jan Hall toasting with her music man Jim.


Having temporarily lost possession of the camera, I wish everyone a happy 2008.

We wouldn't have stayed in and ordered pizza for all the world.