Independence

A year ago I joined G on a pet-sitting gig at his sister's home.  There were 3 corgis and one deaf French bulldog.  The corgis were energetic at the best of times.  At the worst of times, they were maniacal.  The Fourth of July, with the attendant booms and pops and crackles and flashes of light, definitely qualifies as a worst of times.  I spent most of my visit sitting with one of the dogs, rubbing his chest, trying to calm him down, while G sat with the others.  The bulldog, being deaf, couldn't hear the noise, but he responded anyway to the frenzy within the house.

This year I sent G a text:  "Listening to classic rock, waiting for fireworks."  He responded, "Keep the dogs in!"  Last years' experiences apparently left a scar.  Actually, I did double-check with my host about her dogs and the Fourth, and she said they'd be fine, and I should get a ticket to the celebration.  Vons, the nearby version of Smith's (my discount code works there), had them for sale.  So, I stopped by and got the ticket.  When I started breathing after looking at the amount ($8?!?!?), I decided it was probably worth it for parking and a concert of classic rock by a group of which I'd never heard (The Ravelers.)  As it turned out, it wasn't worth it.  There was no parking, so I had to find a place in the neighborhood.  I wound up in an unlabeled parking lot at Pomona College, which I was lucky to locate afterwards.  The Ravelers were not bad, though.  It was like any band of old guys who had day jobs and just liked to play 60s, 70s RockNRoll on the weekend.  There was a band like that in Portland, Johnny Limbo and the Lugnuts, but they had costumes and did an historically-based set list, working their way through the decades from Paul Revere and the Raiders to the Rolling Stones and...maybe even through disco?  Can't recall.

I enjoyed myself, even though I was alone and had not brought much to entertain myself.  The crowd was entertaining enough, and I knitted through the hour and a half until fireworks.  There was an adorable 2-year-old, gamboling about in her tutu and star-decorated T shirt, and the folks next to me were gossiping about friends and people they saw.  Once the lights were doused, the canned music came on; and that was a weird hodgepodge indeed: Boogie Woogie Bugle boy, followed by some modern emo music I didn't know, ending with Sousa and the 1812 overture.  I had to move, though, even though I'd checked with the cops I saw standing around as to the best place to settle.  They were dead wrong:  the fireworks were set off from the south, and I was on the west, with trees in the way.  Oh well.  The fireworks always have something new for me:  this time it was wriggling sperm-like white lights, swimming in all directions to a  high-pitched whooshing sound.  But mainly it was the usual mix of starbursts and loud bangs. 

 

I thought about other celebrations, and wondered what had happened to me and to the country that now all I can bring to the party is a sense of nostalgia and grumpiness about the noise.  I see the flags and mutter about people who don't know the proper way to display the flag, and what does it mean now when people fly the flag?  Does it stand for patriotism, and what is patriotism, anyway? 

This feeling is not new, however.  I can't blame this malaise and downright hostility on 45, even though many pundits do.  It has something to do with growing up and becoming disillusioned.  I've read too many alternative histories to be able to enjoy the mythology of the Fourth.  And, I'm no longer with friends and family, for the most part.  

Years ago, the Fourth meant eating watermelon and corn on the cob and Dad  disappearing for a few moments.  We'd hear a bang/pop from outside and he'd come back in.  He'd gone outside with one of the firecrackers Leif had brought back from Reed.  Since they were illegal, he hadn't shared the activity with us, although I do recall cutting a firecracker in two, lighting the gunpowder, and watching its spark and sizzle, the tiny explosion pushing the cracker away from us along the ground.  I also recall dropping a lit firecracker into a plastic milk jug and listening to the small reverberation as exploded.  One red letter year, we had sparklers.  I still like those, writing names and squiggles in the air with the glowing flames.

I also recall the year we drove into the country with the Bucholtz elders.  They brought a charcoal grill and chicken marinated in Italian dressing, and we brought home-made vanilla icecream, still packed in ice and rock salt in the maker, with the paddles removed from the inner metal container and the lid tightly fixed.  It was a green and quiet picnic, followed by fireworks at Monmouth Park.

One year when I was a teenager, I went out to the park with the Kloeppels.  Erik had been at a summer school of sorts at Knox College, and he brought a tall lanky very cute friend.  Becky and I had an immediate crush on him.  I remember listening to the radio and lying on the blanket next to him, surrounded by our friends, as the ball game concluded and the fireworks went up.  Afternoon Delight will always remind me of him.  (Sadly, although we both ended up at Knox, he was a troubled soul, and I let that fantasy go with little regret.)

My disillusionment didn't set in until later still, though.  Al least through my 30s, I enjoyed the Fourth.  I recall being with B and C at the Colorado Springs fireworks.  B had her camera and tripod, and she took time exposures.  I recall visiting Grandma S in Vancouver, which had the loudest and biggest show west of the Mississippi:  20K at the least.  Leaving the event was like being a refugee in a burning city.  For years, that was a destination, and after she passed, I would go to the Waterfront Blues festival or watch the fireworks from one of the Portland SE bridges.  The heat didn't bother me, and it was always a day off from work.

So, what happened?  Was it one too many stories about frantic dogs or burnt-up neighborhoods?  Was it one too many stories of racism and bigotry?  Was it the difficult years with D, when he'd fight with me about my being too tired to go to the Waterfront?  Was it the crowds? 

I don't know.  It seems that this year, at least, I was able to return a bit to my roots.  Eat some ice cream, sit on a blanket, watch some fireworks.  Maybe I can start celebrating independence, illusory though it seems at times.  After all, you can't be more independent than me:  owning little, owing nothing, on my own.

And, sad as that sounds, I'm not sad. I'm content.