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Well, we’re still here! No nuke plant meltdowns. No catastrophic
power stroke. No Chinese paratroopers raining from the sky. Russian
missiles stayed snug in their silos. Saddam Hussein and his big-bucks
buddy, Osama bin Laden, kept their bombs in their bags and their bugs in
their bottles. And all our toilets flushed.

The passing of the last day of the last year of this wild ride of a
century into the new millennium left me exhausted. My wife, Eilhys, and
I hit the rack at 9 p.m. after she indulged me by helping me run through
my end-of-the-world checklist one more time.

No way was I going to be part of more than a crowd of two on the day
so many experts were warning the sky might fall.

Popcorn and movies were it. We studied a double-feature matinee –
“On the Beach” and “Dr. Strangelove” — as if they were Army training
films. That was all we could squeeze in before putting the guard dogs
through yet another precautionary drill and barricading the fortress.

But for me sleep was fretful. I kept waking up every hour to see if
our canary was still alive, if the little red light was still shining
“on” from our television and to listen for the phone — 10 radio and two
TV stations had me on standby to report in case any bad stuff hit the
fan.

Not sure what I could’ve reported on had the Y2K terrors descended
upon us, as I’d have been out of commo. I guess if someone got through
on the cell phone, I could’ve riffed on how I love the smell of hot
candle wax early in the morning and why the backup generator won’t be
ready until Jan. 7. That might’ve been good for two or three minutes.

The question now is what to do with 2,000 bottles of spring water, 20
cases of tuna, 400 pounds of rice and beans, 10 cases of Army-ration
MREs (Meals Refused by Ethiopians), a few thousand rounds of shotgun
ammo, a like number of batteries and a half-garage of pink candles I got
a deal on from a bankrupt restaurant.

Eilhys, with her infinitely cheery disposition when things are most
grim, suggested I open a roadside stand in front of the house and flog
the stuff at a discount. She pointed out that once the generator was
finally up and running, fueled by my new butane gas tank, I’d be able to
operate 24 hours a day, good weather or bad. She kindly didn’t mention
that all was purchased with most of the money we’d been saving to
revisit our honeymoon place in Fiesole, Italy.

I shot that idea down faster than Al Gore can say Tennessee. “Right!
Except that would take this town’s planning commissions another
millennium to approve. First we’d have to get Larry-the-engineer to do a
study analyzing the impact on the environment. Then he’d have to run it
by Wetlands and all the other agencies, and 82 inspections, 20 grand and
a couple years later, they’d say no.”

Returning the cash — the rest of our savings — to the bank won’t be
a problem. That is, when I find it. I swear I buried the swag by the big
rock next to the oak tree in the back yard. Ten holes later, still no
sign of the tin cans. The dogs are no help either. They’re so exhausted
from the extra motivational training, they’ve flat refused to double as
sniffers to get me out of a serious jam.

Eilhys doesn’t buy my line that we’re all victims of the past, in
spite of a most excellent excuse. After all, I had the five Ps — Prior
Planning Prevents Poor Performance — beaten into me by tough sergeants
when I was a kid. So whenever there’s a threat, I’ve just got to get
ready.

But all’s not lost. I’m holding onto the 86 cases of whiskey just in
case Prohibition comes back. You can never tell. And in the event the
wrong Wunderkind presidential wannabe makes it to the White House, I’ll
have something to numb what’s left of my brain.

In the meantime, so far so good. But just in case, keep 500 bucks
handy and keep five yards.

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