As I allow my mind to wander back to the Independence Day’s of long ago when I was a kid and life was simpler, I realize it was always a day set aside for family, an abundance of delicious food, rousing games, swimming, and topped with a sky filled with fireworks. Memories drift back at random, mostly the same but with each year that passed somehow different.
Each year my Dad rose early to leave the house by 9 am to load the back of his red ranchero with barrel grills he had specially made, a couple wire screens, barbecue dish mops, spray bottles filled with water, and the ingredients to his special sauce in a paper bag. Every 4th of July my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins would gather without fail. Every year the venue changed.
One year it would be held at Grandma and Grandpa’s farm where we could play croquet, horse shoes, or softball after eating. Another we would travel into Michigan to my Uncle’s house for a day at the lake. Still other times the venue would be my Aunt’s house which would promise time spent in her swimming pool. Some years the family gathered at one of the local county parks where the hosting family had rented a pavilion. One thing was constant; as long as my Dad lived he made his fabulous chicken and we were required to attend without fail. Each family would bring a salad or a dessert. It was always a massive spread of delicious food and if you walked away hungry it was no one’s fault but your own.
While my dad went his merry way, my mom would be busy in the kitchen making deviled eggs and placing them carefully on her glass egg plate. My mom, sister, and I always made our appearance at the family picnic closer to the noon hour when it would soon be time to eat. The only person that really looked forward to these gatherings was my Dad. He never missed them. He could be gone and miss birthdays and other holidays, but he was always home for the 4th of July to make his chicken for the family. He loved going to the reunions. The rest of us went for him. I can’t remember ever looking forward to it. The atmosphere was almost always awkward.
Once you got past hello, what in G0d’s name did you say to people you only saw a few times a year? Hugs and kisses could be counted on from only a few. Grandma never failed to hug me hello and goodbye. Then she would be off to make certain no one got more than one piece of that glorious chicken. The standard question when I was a kid was “How do you like school?” And “What grade are you going to be in?” and “How is your sister?” The last one always made my blood boil a bit. I mean “Who cares?”
There were times as I grew up they wouldn’t even bother with the niceties of inquiring about how I was but simply ask me about her as if simply because we were sisters I knew all of her business and what made her tick. As I got older I rebelled a bit and went for the shocking truth. “Oh she couldn’t come because she is in jail” or “I have no idea, probably drunk somewhere.” Looking back, I realize she was probably a lot more interesting to talk about than I was. When she was there, they would still ask about her as if they thought they could get the real story from me. I hated that!! To their credit, I don’t even think they realized they did it. They never did get the clue not to ask me about her. They would gather in their own intimate families and eat together paying little never mind to everyone else. My Dad was the exception; he would wander among all of them and force them to talk to him.
The 4th of July always ended with fireworks. Our next door neighbors would bring their lawn chairs over when it got dark and we would line up our chairs and my Dad would set off his fireworks. There would be sparklers for me to whirl and then we would sit out in our lawn chairs half the night watching fireworks light up the sky, the grownups nursing ice cold beers, and while I pointed out each burst of color that crossed the night sky. It could be hotter than the fires of hell during the day, but by the time the sun went down I remember some 4th of July’s turning cold enough we needed jackets and blankets.
Sadly those long ago days are lost forever and only a memory. Many members of that extended family who made the reunions happen without fail are gone. Both of my parents are gone. This year my husband is on the road, and we are here. There is a county wide ban on fireworks due to the never ending draught that has plagued us all summer. We will spend the holiday quietly as if it is just another day until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
