Eve of New Millennium

The pink sky that changed everything

View over Horseshoe Lake in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin December 31, 1999. Photo by author.

Back on New Year's Eve 1999, armed with a real camera and genuine camera film, I snapped a less-than-stellar photo. After a week's incubation at a Kodak print spot, it emerged, capturing the fading sunlight on Horseshoe Lake in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin.

My folks had graciously invited me and my young ones, ages 7 and 4, for a weekend stay. The world, however, was in full Y2K panic mode. People feared a digital doomsday scenario where computers, upon striking midnight on January 1, 2000, might misinterpret the year 2000 as its vintage counterpart, 1900. The potential fallout included wonky mortgage math, rumored blackouts, and whispers of infrastructural chaos – planes free-falling, banks imploding, and nuclear plants melting down. 

In times of impending crisis, my mom, the worrier, rallied her adult children to huddle up (and pull their cash out of the bank). So, although I knew my parents were looking forward to time with the grandkids, the real motive behind the invite was society's potential nosedive. I, on the other hand, took the invitation as a life raft, steering clear of my own impending collapse.

A year and a half prior, my marriage had hit the rocks, plunging me into the abyss of deep depression. Drifting between commitments kept me from sinking entirely. I scheduled my designated crying slots and diligently checked off the stages of grief – Denial? Check. Anger? Check. Bargaining? Check. By the eve of 1999, I was on the cusp of the final stage: Acceptance. Despite venturing into the realm of dating, commitment was still a distant shore. At 31, I found solace nestled beneath the parental wings, my kids close for comfort.

Inherently introspective, the last day of the millennium found me mulling over my life. The self-doubt was real: A failed marriage, I felt unlovable with the constant fear of someone changing their mind about loving me. This internal turmoil had my throat in a stranglehold and my eyes on the brink of pouring over. To avoid an impromptu sob fest in front of the family, I feigned the need for a walk and threw on my boots and jacket, grabbed my camera, and took my emotional turmoil outside.

It was late afternoon, and darkness was already setting in. The temperature hovered just above freezing, but tears, frozen to my face, bore witness to the Arctic 'feels like' temperature. I made my way to the edge of the property and turned to gaze over the lake. I squatted down and hastily snapped a photo. At the time I wasn’t thinking about composition (obviously) nor had I thought about the impact of immortalizing this once-in-a-millennium moment. But once I saw the developed photo, the symbolism nearly knocked me over.

Sure, the setting was dreary – cold, windy, and dark, a true mood-killer. But here's the kicker: the sky was pink, and that changed everything.

I owe my willingness to be open to love to that pink sky (not to mention a few friends that encouraged a blind date three months later).

Now, I've got that subpar photo matted and framed in my home. Anyone inspecting it might label it as a terrible picture, and they'd be spot on. Yet, what was transpiring in my mind during that pivotal moment was transformative, a mental milestone commemorated on film and showcased daily for the past 24 years.