In the story, the unnamed reporter lives in a future so far removed from our own that people do not keep track of time the way we do now. After all, while a year on Earth is 365 days—the time it takes for our planet to go around the Sun—how would you keep track of what year it is on a planet that revolves around its main star in half the time? Or one whose year is twice as long as ours? How would a galaxy-wide human race collectively decide what year it is?

However, my intrepid future reporter reveals to his fans that he has been doing research on ancient humans and discovers that, if he were to use old Earth timekeeping methods, it is about to be the year 10,000 A.D. His research shows that, back in our present day, we went rather overboard in celebrating the "new millennium" as the calendar changed from the year 1999 to the year 2000. If he had delved further into his research, he would have also discovered that we were wrong. The new millennium would not begin for another year, on January 1, 2001.

Today.

Yes, folks, I'm a millennium purist. All that celebrating you did a year ago was rather premature.

Well, maybe not. We could say we were celebrating the end of the old millennium and, of course, celebrated again last night, ringing in the real new millennium.

Then again, the year 2000 went by awfully quickly, didn't it?

I can't believe it's been another full year of receiving, editing, and posting stories, and doing all the other work for Demensions. I can't believe it has already been six months since I joined the Chronicle-Independent. I can't believe it's already been seven months since we took in Betsy, our second Basset Hound. And I really can't believe that in three days my son will be three months old.

Where did 2000 go?

2000 was supposed to be a year-long, seminal event. My future reporter notes rather humorously that we spent an awful lot of 1999 worrying about the "Y2K" bug, and spent a good deal of the first part of 2000 finding out that we didn't really have anything to worry about. At least, not too much. From crackpots to political pundits, 2000 was thought to herald all kind of change. Instead, we merely had a protracted election season, Survivor pandemonium, and saw way too many advertisements about the lottery.

We also saw that, no matter the year, some things never change. Violence in the Middle East. Microsoft being attacked. The stock market rising fast, then sinking faster. Men and women leaping out into space aboard the International Space Station. Men and women leaping to new heights at the Sydney Olympics. Floods, volcanoes, tornadoes, fires. Twins, triplets, and quadruplets being born. People dying before their time. People living longer every day.

It all goes on in an endless sea of scenes, like the images shown by the Guardian of Forever to Captain Kirk and his crew in the classic Star Trek episode "The City on the Edge of Forever."

The year 2000 would be a minor flash in—or even omitted from—such a display. It all went by too quickly to be such an important year.

But important it was, nonetheless, to each and every one of us in our own way.

My step-mother died; my son was born. I left one career behind and started a new one. Perhaps you got married, or had a son or daughter of your own. Perhaps your son or daughter got married. Perhaps your husband or wife passed away.

On The Chronicle-Independent's front page today, I helped Camden and Kershaw County, South Carolina, relive the big stories of 2000. I'm glad I got the chance to do that. I learned about some things from before I joined the paper, and relived some of the stories I covered myself. But I began to realize the stories of 2000 were not what made 2000 memorable. At least, not the stories we reported. It was our own stories; the stories we lived, every day, with our own families and friends.

Survivor doesn't affect you, unless you're Richard Hatch. Who won the election doesn't really affect you, unless you're Al Gore. The Space Station doesn't affect you, unless you're an astronaut who can handle being in tight spaces, weightless, for months on end.

What does matter is taking care of your cancer-ridden wife until she passes away after four years of torment. What does matter is making tough decisions that end up blessing you with a child you wouldn't trade for the world. What does matter is listening to your friends when they have no one else to talk to. What does matter is finding the spaces in which to laugh—in between the ones that make you cry, or make you frustrated, or just make you want to give up.

The real new millennium starts today, and what really matters is finding all those happy spaces in 2001.

Happy New Year!