New Year’s Eve 1979, I had just turned ten-years-old. Even at that young age, it felt extremely significant to observe the dawn of a new decade. I wanted to make sure I never forgot the exact moment that it became “the eighties.”
For Christmas, my great-grandmother had given me a pink, ceramic clock fashioned in the form of a little girl wearing a sunbonnet. At 11:30 p.m., I took the clock from my bedside and carried it to the dining room table.
I could hear laughter in the kitchen, as my parents and their guests prepared to ring in the new year, but I didn’t join them. I sat at the table, and stared at the pink clock, refusing to look away for even a moment.
I don’t know how accurate my clock was, but the moment the second hand completed its final round of 1979 is forever etched in my memory.
The eighties had arrived. It was monumental. I thought an eternity would pass before I saw the turn of another decade, for ten years was quite literally a lifetime to me.
Before 1990, I would get my first job, learn to drive, go to junior high and high school, have my first heart break, go to college, and meet the man who would become the father of my children. While I didn’t know the exact details of my future, I was extremely cognizant of the fact that I was suddenly living in the decade in which I would become both a teenager, and an adult.
Now, I have just turned fifty years old, and I am sitting on the cusp of 2020. In many ways, it feels just as significant to watch the turn of this decade as it did in 1979. I’m no longer the wide-eyed little girl, but the passage of time, and the mysteriousness of the future, still fascinate me. I have no idea what heartaches or joys the next ten years hold, but I do have things I hope to accomplish before turning sixty. Instead of New Year’s resolutions, I have New Decade resolutions.
1. Start my own business
2. Publish a couple of books
3. Establish myself as a public speaker
4. Meditate more
5. Travel more
The list goes on and on. There are so many things I want to do, and time is quickly escaping. They tell me my fifties will be the best decade of my life, which means the 2020s are going to be a roaring good time!
I don’t have big plans for ringing in the new year. I’ll probably be sitting on the couch with my guy, trying not to fall asleep before the ball drops in Times Square. My stamina level is not the same as it was in 1979.
Wherever you are, and however you celebrate, I wish you all the best! Happy New Decade!
Syndicated Columnist Ginger Claremohr is an author, speaker, and mother of five. Follow her on Facebook, find her on the web:, or contact