ix. two thousand nine

people are not quite this crazy where i come from. there was that new year's where T imbibed god knows what in the empty farmhouse, then almost burned down a field until the county fire department appeared. otherwise things are pretty tame, folks fill their fireplaces when it's fifty degrees outside, and liquor can only be bought south of the railroad tracks. not so in north dakota. we arrived at the cabin bundled up in the car, with cold toes and frozen pizzas hanging out in the back of the truck. everyone was standing by the hobo fire outside, their fronts illuminated with a goblin-like glow. it was two degrees fahrenheit. beers froze in the bottles if not gulped fast enough. we added layers and joined them, glassy eyes peeking out below caps and hoods and bulky carhart coveralls and ski attire. one of the older generation passed around redeye, also known as wedding whisky, which tastes of black licorice and leaves a burn on your lips. i sipped red wine during the brief interludes indoors. then it was close to midnight, so a few of us gathered in the garage, some smoking grape cigars, to unwrap bottle rockets and sparklers that were crammed into a sawed-off barrel. well over a hundred firecrackers bouqueted in anticipation of release. outside the sparklers were lit, we prepared to duck as needed, and the booms started. a shower of divine light accompanied by acrid smoke blocked the clear, cruel sky. i coughed and retired indoors. sleep came soon after, on blankets on the floor in a corner shared with mummified crickets and tired carpet. the morning brought tequila shots and classic rock radio before departure, my snow boots well coated and smoke-filled outerware reeking of the new year.