YANKEE DOODLE DIVA

On this day, in the year of our lord COVID-19, the 4th of July is more bust than boom. As I social distance with my wine and lone sparkler, I am drawn to reminisce about the greatest 4th of Julys of them all - the ones of my childhood! These were the celebrations my family held in my hometown in eastern Ohio, a small town in the Steel Valley. Every year of my childhood, we gathered in the local park, as a clan, for the sole purpose of being together. It was the purest of celebrations because it wasn't about gifts or cards, getting the turkey in the oven at 5 a.m., or worrying over seating arrangements. In fact, it wasn't even about patriotic zealotry. For us, it was just about family.

"We are family!....

These 4ths started the night before when our grandfather and male cousins went to the park to stake out our territory. Because 99% of the town did the same thing, the only way to secure picnic tables was to sleep on them. I am telling you that any prone body, living or dead, atop a wooden table constituted a "reserved" sign that was meant to be respected.  I marveled at the bravery of the cousins to sleep outside in a park that housed a place known as Dead Man's Hill. It wasn't until I was much older that I figured out that Grandpa kept the guys in place with liquid courage in the form of Wild Turkey.

"This'll do the trick, boys!"

The next day, all the families would arrive with their contributions of various dishes and booze. In those days, you could drink in public parks! On the other hand, maybe it was against the law, but there wasn't room in the local jail for the entire town, so it was overlooked. Since there was no social media back then, our parents didn't dress us in matching spangled outfits or shirts with the Constitution printed on them. Nope. We wore whatever we pulled out of our dresser drawers that morning, provided it was clean. We didn't wave miniature flags or dress the tables with bunting. The paper plates and cups were cheap without a festive patriotic pattern to be found. We didn't need those trappings as we had America all around us.

My little town

Immediately, we kids were told to scram. This was a holiday for the adults, too, and they didn't need us hovering, asking when we were going to eat, whining about nonsense like mosquito bites, poison ivy, and second degrees burns from accidentally tripping over the grill. We were each given a few dollars and chased off to the carnival that came into town each year. We could not, for the life of us, understand how adults could be so dreary and boring that they would rather sit around, drinking bottles of beer and talking about who knows what, rather than enjoying the best part of the entire 4th of July - the fair!

Who could resist??

When my cousins, Marie and Mary, and I were in Junior High, we strutted over to the carnival in shorts as short as our fathers would allow (not very) and walked the circumference of the fair with our heads pressed together in gossip and our eyes on the look-out for boys we would ignore should they dare acknowledge us.  Every once in awhile, we'd buy a ticket for a ride. Understand: In those days, no one was expected to keep you safe, much less alive. These rides had no seat belts (or, if they did, they were threadbare with broken clasps,) and most likely did not get regularly scheduled check ups. This meant we spent time on the spinning rides getting thrown against one another as we clung for dear life to the cheap metal handlebars that could break at any minute, launching us to our very deaths!  The thrill of riding the tiny ferris wheel, that only gave us a bird's-eye view of the tops of the game tents, was that MAYBE it would break down with us at the very top. We imagined the high drama of the entire town gathered beneath us, keeping vigil as they awaited the rescue of the three brave teenagers swinging in the wind!

"Ride at your own risk, my pretties."

Eventually, we wandered back to the picnic area to either settle our stomaches or indulge in the picnic food. Some in my family remember the various dishes our grandmothers and aunts prepared more than I, but I will never forget the sight of the jar of purple-colored hard-boiled eggs my grandmother made every year. "Pickled eggs," she called them. So wrong. They should have been dubbed, "Heaven in a Mason Jar." There was plenty of really good food, but the truth is, my cousins and I were anxious to get back to the fair just in case the boys we intended to ignore finally decided to show their obnoxious, yet cute, faces. BUT, it was just about at this point that nature called.

Dear reader. I apologize if I upset your delicate constitution by describing the bathroom situation at our town park, but, as it was a pertinent part of my 4th of July experience, I feel it is necessary. The "bathrooms" were basically walled in pavilions - cement floors, wooden stalls. The "toilet" was an elevated seat above a hole in the ground. Apparently, there was a toilet paper shortage back then, too, because it was no where to be found. Also, in regards to privacy, the old wooden doors didn't close properly and the hook locks were pointless. Mary, Marie and I always went in, together, as spotters, to make sure some pervert didn't simply enter and simply crawl under the stall door that was a full four feet off the ground.  As dramatic teens, we were sure this was something that happened daily in our town.

At some point, a few things happened.  1. We realized our elderly parents had a softball game going. How embarrassing! What were these people in their late 30's/early 40's doing wielding bats and throwing pitches?  2. It was time to light the sparklers! Kids today have no idea about the power of the sparkler circa 1969-1974. Unlike today's weak attempt, these sparklers were somewhere near 5 feet long and had a sparkle circumference the size of a water melon. They could be seen from space! 3. Things were about to get very loud as the boys had gotten ahold of cherry bombs Again, young people can't understand that in this day and age, the cherry bomb of that era would be considered a weapon of terrorism. We spent a lot of time jumping 30 feet into the air every time someone set one of those ear-drum blasters off in our vicinity. It was actually a relief to start cleaning up our picnic area so we could head to the very best part of the entire 4th.

Actual footage of the cherry bomb action.

At this point, we all headed towards a large field where we would gather on blankets on the hill and await the world's greatest fireworks. Yes, there are places that had larger, more elaborate displays. But, these were ours, and with them, came traditions. There were ground shows, like the dragon  (the high school teams' mascot) that glowed fire-engine red. There was the mandatory "ooo!" followed by that "ahh!" that was treated like a religious response. There was the singing that sometimes occurred before the start of the display, like the time our Great-Uncle began the Star Spangled Banner, and soon, the entire crowd in our section joined in, until it spread all around the hill. And, then, there was the sky show, itself. These fireworks bloomed above our heads in every color, let out a resounding boom that echoed through the entire town, and then left us with the sizzle of the sparks that dropped dangerously close to the crowd. Of course, nothing topped the Grand Finale. The rockets were launched in such quick succession that the world around us looked like a sputtering black-and-white silent movie reel. The noise was both overwhelming and thrilling. We couldn't believe it!! When, at last, it was silent, the crowd let out an appreciative roar, and we all - family and neighbors, townsfolk and friends, looked around at each other and smiled.

The last time I was at that park for the 4th of July was the summer our grandfather was dying. My cousin, Mary and I had just graduated from high school, and Marie had gotten married in Florida. We were no longer children. Grandpa's death would be our first experience with deep grief and the sense that nothing could ever be the same, again. I do not remember a family picnic that day. There might have been one, but I don't think our parents were up to it. Mary and I wandered the park and talked about our grandfather, who would be gone by the time we both started college in September. That day was a mild distraction from reality, but things had already changed. The carnival rides looked cheap and flimsy. We knew the games were rigged. The fireworks lost their luster, that year.

Eventually, we got our 4th of Julys back. They were different. Our extended families were separated by geography, and we no longer drove back to our hometown to relive the picnics of our childhood. We started new traditions that we shared with our spouses and our children. Circumstances continued to change. We, somehow, became "the older generation" and newer traditions were formed. This year, we had yet another change. There was no large picnic hosted at my sister and brother-in-law's home. There were no tents, no hugs, no laughter over delicious food and drinks. The young ones didn't get to pretend to fish in the channel and the older ones didn't get to ride the jet skis. But, one thing remained the same. We were together. Maybe not physically, but in each other's hearts.  Because, for us, it's just about family.

The last 4th of July our mother was able to attend, in 2014, with all but two of her grandchildren.

Mom and her four great-grandchildren (and one on the way) and their Mama's in 2014.  There are now seven!