Tales From the Fourth

Ever since Tom and I moved to our little slice of heaven in Michigan (it actually has a main street, a police force you can see, recognizable neighbors), one of the things we have enjoyed is the annual Fourth of July celebration.  There is a marathon which actually has its starting line in front of our house (we live at a “T” intersection); there’s a water fight between our fire department and that of a neighboring city; the firefighters dig out a vintage fire engine and sweep the neighborhood giving rides to the kids, etc.  It’s very down-home, very vintage in the annals of Americana, made even better by our proximity the football field and park, across and down the street by one block.

Tom and I make a game of watching all of the foot traffic from our porch.  We live in a small town, and so we know or recognize a vast majority of the faces (including that of one student athlete that our kids have labeled as "a human phallus" ... I leave the translation to your discretion); and butts that walk by.  Every once in a while, we see a new candidate for “underwear model of the month,” but we have yet to have any of them actually volunteer.  There were a couple of new faces of note that ambled past the house, but given the circumstances, we weren’t able to invite them for an underwear inspection, unfortunately.

Here’s a taste of what we experienced this past week:

My ex, her mother, and my daughter were part of the festivities.  They drove all the way up from Texas (they must have fireworks there; if everyone has the right to carry a gun in Texas, everyone must be able to buy their own fireworks, right?) as part of daughter’s normal summer visit, cut short this year.  Not only was I dealing with Texas twangs, but our 70-degree weather was always, “hot.”  (Did I mention they were from Texas?!?)  I also had new guests this year in the form of a male couple from Flint – nice guys who weren’t in the least intimidated by guests from Texas or all the abnormal war zone noises described below.  Here, we call that the Fourth of July.  In Flint, they call that “Tuesday.”  And to round out the “crazy collection” of family, my mother (who tolerates my ex and ex-mother-in-law) also drove into town to add her own two kegs of gunpowder to the fireworks.  Good times.

My immediate neighbor to the south is an elderly gentleman who allows his grandchildren to descend en masse with their (ex-convict) kids, neighbors and friends and use his house and yard as Party Central.  To their credit, they don’t clog up the street with their parking, but manage a very careful organization of their pick-up trucks in the back yard, as he doesn’t have a garage.  While the language and the alcohol can be coarse and there is usually some form of damage, they do clean up his yard and are out of here at 11.00 p.m. promptly, either because the little ones have to be put to bed, or because their ankle monitors will send a signal at midnight that curfew is being broken.  My back yard, on the other hand, is littered with paper and gunpowder residue.

My neighbor two doors to the north is an older (not elderly) gentleman who invites all of his similarly-aged buddies and their grown sons to his home with every incendiary device that can be bought legally in the state.  Last night was no exception as they gave the city a run for its money in the fireworks extravaganza department, complete with trucks parked on the lawn and coolers lined up the walk.  (Why is it everybody turns into a “good ole boy” on the Fourth?  Can’t people wear a suit and tie and drink lemonade, instead of streaking in a birthday suit – and tie – and swigging Mike’s Hard Lemonade?)

Floating lanterns were big this year.  Several neighbors were lighting them up and floating them into the sky.  Nice touch and very demure in the face of all of the explosions that were going on well after midnight.

Our town will probably be re-named Beirut.  It was like a war zone here yesterday!  I mean, you always have neighbors setting off their own displays for the kids or making merry as an excuse to get drunk, but last night was a complete exception to the quiet “everybody is enjoying the holiday” rule.  I had been running about so much I attempted to power nap before the big fireworks show, and I literally felt like I was in a war zone.  I later made the joke that there was so much noise and so many explosions, Jessica Fletcher of Murder, She Wrote would show up because it would turn out someone had been knocked off during all the hullabaloo.

The dog ended up in the basement hiding again, after we took careful steps to make sure he would actually enjoy the holiday.  I own an 80-lb. black Labrador, who is frightened of everything louder than a champagne cork.  Like most dogs of his breed, he’s an alarm barker, so if he hears a noise, one is guaranteed an insistent ten minutes of baying, barking, whining and pacing as he attempts to find the source.  Apply this formula to the Fourth of July, and needless to say the poor animal is a basket case by the end of the night.  We approached the vet to get tranquilizers – a full pill made him absolute dead weight with pupils fully-blown and tongue out the side of his mouth; half a pill left him mobile but still victimized by firecrackers and knocks at the door.

The kids trashed my front lawn with confetti poppers (thank you, Tom).  After the fireworks show, they decided to take their celebrations to the front yard, which became littered with mirrored confetti.  At least they tried to clean up after themselves, but being kids, they didn’t do a very good job.  To add insult to injury, it rained late last night, so I can’t rake up the remnants as they’re sticking to the sidewalk and melted into the grass.

I think next year, guests or not, I will definitely post in order to stay in the underwear zone.  (Thank goodness my friend Lincoln was part of the guest parade; he deserves major kudos for assisting me in doing an upgrade to the page, as well as tweaking some of the finer points on the technical side.)  I only wish I could get some local talent to contribute, but that would probably be illegal.  There are probably some veterans or other such patriots who would yammer about today’s photos – since you’re not supposed to use the American flag as a decoration, as an article of clothing, as a table top, a blanket, etc. – but right now, as I recuperate from the week I’ve had, I really don’t give a rat’s a**.  It’s time the American flag was used to suit a necessary purpose:

Oh, beautiful for luscious thighs;

For amber waves of groin ….

Happy Fourth, fellow Americans.  And to our neighbors in Canada, we forgave you for the noise on July 1 (Canada Day), so if you’ll do the same, we can continue on our merry way ….