Despite the fact that the Fourth of July marks the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the founding of our country and the launch of modern democracy, the holiday hasn't carried much weight with my family for almost 30 years. I guess, in a way, we can take it or leave it.
We didn't always feel this way, however. Back in the 50s, 60s and 70s, my extended family gathered at my grandparents' home where we'd picnic in the back yard and listen to the cicadas' song rise and fall like a lazy siren. At twilight, my sisters and cousins and I would play "kick-the-can" with the neighborhood kids and pursue one another through Miss Purdy's yard and the Mayberry's bushes. And finally, when the night had fallen into a pool of velvet dark, my Dad would pile all of us into the station wagon and we'd drive all over the county as we chased the fireworks shooting overhead.
All of that was lost when I went away to college at the University of Missouri-Columbia. With my grandparents gone, the house on Oak Street was sold to strangers. And after years of anxious waiting, my father announced his plans to abandon suburbia and retire to a 10-acre "farmette" he'd found a few miles outside Jeff City, the capital of Missouri. It was a nice spread as these things go: a small barn for boarding horses, 8 acres of fenced pasture, a chicken coop, a workshop and all kinds of old tools, plows and implements hidden in the weeds. Every other week Dad would find one of these ancient, blackened marriages of iron and rotting wood, drag it to the front yard and slap a "FOR SALE" sign on it--entrepreneurial to the end.
The farm was Dad's dream and his long awaited chance to raise Black Angus cattle, board horses and weed two acres of scraggly lawn to within an inch of its life. For him, it was heaven. Mom, on the other hand, was presented with water in the basement, snakes in the rec room, bright orange kitchen countertops, "harvest yellow" appliances and a quarter-acre of flower garden to tend--a little less divine for her, I think.
"Living the dream" was difficult for Mom, and she was very lonely in those first few months. I was never home (I lived on campus), and my sisters and the rest of the family were 400 miles away. Dad, sad to say, was a stranger to Mom's mood. He was too busy slapping aluminum siding on all the outbuildings and hiring the crack-shot 4H kid next door to shoot down the pigeons that were always roosting on his pristine, aluminum-sided barn.
My sister Donna, however, knew Mom's mind and plotted a surprise "mission of mercy." She convinced my sister Susan, cousins Colleen and Becky along with Mom's brother Dean and my great aunt Della to squeeze into Uncle Dean's posh Safari van and drive eight hours for a brief visit over the holiday weekend. The idea was good, but the timing was a little off because the 4th fell on Monday. Since some of them had to work on Friday (July 1) and everyone had to be back at work Tuesday morning (July 5), Saturday (July 2) and Monday (July 4) became travel days. It was a cold hard fact that seemed to strip the holiday of everything we had come to expect.
When they arrived--tired, cranky and late--Mom was very happy to see them but at a loss as to where to put them because she hadn't fixed up the guest bedrooms yet. So, most of them just sprawled on the new living room carpet. Mom asked, "Does anyone want a pillow?" Uncle Dean, already going comically deaf, looked up, smacked his lips and enthusiastically said, "Jell-o? Jell-o? I'll have some Jell-o!"
Mom was disappointed to learn that they would only be staying two nights. But Susan, Becky, Colleen and Donna were not dismayed in the least; shopping, they swore, can work miracles and make memories. Armed with $150 cash and an ounce of determination, they hit the fireworks stands along I-70 and scored sparklers, worms, bottle rockets, cherry bombs and Roman candles. Cruising up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart, they grabbed kiddie pools, disposable barbecue grills and Chinette dinnerware which, the next evening, made for a macabre yet festive family reunion as we celebrated the Third of July.
"Third of July! Third of July!" we cried as we ran up and down the driveway with sparklers blazing in our fists. "Third of July!" we screamed each time we set off a bottle rocket and sent Dad hunting through the grass to find and dispose of the leftover stick. We sang camp songs ("Peanuuuuuuuuuut Peanut Butter--Jelly!"), told ghost stories, and when the night fell into the velvet dark--something the Chicago suburbs can no longer do--we sent our own fireworks into the sky and called everyone to follow.
It was one of the best times in my life, and it's probably my most cherished family memory. Yet, Mom and
Dad and I missed out on the perfect finish touching for that weekend. Driving home on July 4, Uncle Dean took "the back way" up Route 47 where he spied scores of eager locals waiting for the DeKalb County fairgrounds to open for the evening's fireworks show. He pulled his glorious Safari van to a stop near the gate, rolled down his electric window and yelled, "Cancelled! Cancelled! Go home! TOO DANGEROUS! Cancelled!" before starting off again on their way home.
My sisters and cousins, of course, were tickled pink. And me? I was and am just a little green with envy for having missed a moment that has since become family legend.
