We've got another celebration coming up this Saturday as summer begins in its sweaty earnest. Happy Birthday, America. You don't look a day over 239. No, wait, that's how old the country really is. Sorry, I guess you are looking your age. In my book, the place has got about twenty-five years left as we know it. Thanks to the politicians of this land, we are circling the drain as we speak.
But that's for the future. Let's remember the joyous past. And the Fourth of July usually stands out as the Tiffany of our patriotic holidays.
The summer holiday, totally unique to our country, is one of our glorious traditions. Everybody has developed their own routine on how to celebrate the Fourth. Since I moved to points west, it's all about the Hollywood Bowl with its music and fireworks spectacular. I'll be there this year listening to...er...Smokey Robinson. If the baseball schedule gods give me a break, there's a game and post-game pyrotechnics to soak in. I am lucky this year. The Dodgers are home for the weekend and I'll be watching their fireworks on Friday. Oh, and even better, their opponents are the Mets!
So, my holiday weekend this year is set. And hopefully trouble-free.
Unlike others in the past.
When I was a kid, there were the years with a family barbecue, usually in our backyard which quickly was transformed into either a badminton court or a croquet field. Organized games were popular with my tribe as it was a welcome diversion to either eating or fighting. My cousins were mostly older so I was completely overmatched/underaged when it came to playing these games. I was too short. I was too uncoordinated. I was always too too something.
During the badminton games, I pretty much fanned on the shuttlecock. It would land at my feet. Or I'd hit it so hard that it would get lost amongst my grandmother's rhubarb plants.
When it came to croquet, I was not a proponent of the "less is more" approach. It was a lawn game, but I had my share of fly balls when it came to the sport. I'd attack my turn with the zeal of Mickey Mantle hitting a fastball down the plate. One took such an arc that I missed the wicket altogether. But managed a direct hit on the garage window. I looked sheepish and uttered my standard apology.
Sorry.
Grandma had another single word for me.
"Dumkopf."
The adults usually stayed sequestered in a row of beach chairs. If the temperature went below 90 degrees, my grandmother and the ubiquitous Tante Emma would hightail it into the house to fetch their winter coats. The summer humidity would be draining us all of body water. Meanwhile, Grandma would sit and bundle up.
"I feel a draft."
As the day would wind down, there would be less activity and more chit chat. One year, somebody had cracked a joke and one of our relatives laughed so hard that she shit right through her Capri pants onto the beach chair. I would have burned the thing right then and there. But, my father simply took it and hosed it off.Not enough for me. I never sat in that particular chair ever again.
We weren't big on fireworks. And, besides I was still reeling from an unfortunate incident with matches, so the fear of fire was still all too real. The most I would tackle would be the run down the driveway holding a sparkler. Meanwhile, my mother would get more of a flame going by simply lighting up a pack of Kent Cigarettes.
The real celebratory explosives were happening up the block with my neighborhood chums. They had the major artillary and plenty of it. Cherry bombs, sky rockets, and the unfortunately-but-aptly named "nigger chasers." Again, the remembrance of flames near my fingers made me a spectator to the special effects around me. Did I want to light one? Er, no, thanks.
One year, there was an inexplicable attempt to go watch a professional fireworks show at a high school in Tuckahoe. My family didn't do organized events often. This one, however, was well populated. Even Grandma attended in one of her rare appearances that didn't involve either church, the A and P, or Suchy's Funeral Home in the Bronx. Invitations out of the realm usually got her tried-and-true response.
"I'll stay home."
Well, that July the Fourth, Grandma went with the rest of us to see fireworks. It looked like all of Westchester County had converged on the Tuckahoe High School football bleachers to watch this. The usual ooohs and aahs. When it was over, the throng exited en masse. There was no room to move. My mother instructed me to hold onto my grandmother's hand for dear life. I did so.As I exited the crowd to meet the rest of my entourage, I was alone. Somehow, my hand was no longer attached to my grandmother's.
"Oh, great! You lost your grandmother!"
My fault again.
Moments later, Grandma emerged from the melee. Unscathed and unamused."Next year, I stay home."She turned to look at me.
"Dumkopf."
Most of us will not be around when and if America celebrates its tricentennial in 2076. But, quite a lot of us were around for the bicentennial and we will have to hold that single memory for our entire lives. I remember all the hoopla.
The tall ships in New York Harbor.
The fireworks over Washington DC.
Arthur Fiedler conducting the Boston Pops.
All of it televised with Walter Cronkite officiating over all.
The only problem is I had other issues that day.
I thought I had cancer.
The day before, it had started. Terrific stomach pains that manifested themselves quickly in the form of hourly bathroom visits. The only trouble is what was leaking out of me didn't look right.
It was nothing but blood.
And, in one of my frequent moments of stupidity, I said nothing to anybody.My mother had a medical reference book in her arsenal. I pulled it out and looked up the symptoms.
Oh, my God, I have cancer of the colon!
Since I now assumed that I was dying, I figured it was time to mention my problem. I needed to give my folks time to clear their schedules in the event of my impending funeral. Indeed, they actually worried about this. But, not enough to respond outside of their usual medical orbit.
"We'll take you to Dr. Weisberg tomorrow."
Oh, God, no. Not him. I've written about this goofball before. A guy who would have attended to Robert Kennedy's head wound by spraying Bactine on it. This time around, however, Dr. Weisberg had to do a little bit more than simply prescribe Tylenol. One swig of barium and a GI series later, I was pronounced fit. Or as fit as a serious bout of kiddie colitis could leave me. I could celebrate America's birthday with nothing more than a steady diet of tapioca.
America's one noteworthy birthday during my lifetime and I'm toasting it with a bland diet.
Oh, well. I obviously lived to blog about it.
Enjoy the holiday and drive safely.
Dinner last night: French dip panini at the Arclight Cafe.
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