Memories Celebrating the Fourth of July
My daughter told me this is her favorite holiday, better than Christmas. Pictures on the walls and shelves of our house capture the memories.
Holidays and other life events are hard now without my son. I know this kind of “hardness” having to experience it when my mom died; I was twenty-three. Now, without my son, the ”hardness” feels ten-times more difficult to bare. The milestones we have celebrated without him so far: his twenty-fourth birthday, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and my husband’s birthday. Mine is coming up. For now, the only reason we “celebrate” these milestones is for my daughter.
The Fourth of July holiday is nearing. My daughter told me this is her favorite holiday, better than Christmas. One year we went out of town over the holiday, and my daughter sternly informed me I was never to do that again. There are so many good memories celebrating the Fourth of July as our children grew up. Pictures on the walls and shelves of our house capture the memories. Each year I would tactfully decorate the house in the spirit of the holiday to put my family in the mood for the celebration.
The township on the lake celebrates the holiday in picturesque small-town fashion.
We are fortunate to live near a large lake in a suburb of a large city and have family who even lives closer, giving us access to all that comes with a lake in the summertime. The township on the lake celebrates the holiday in picturesque small-town fashion. The front porches on the cottage style homes sport American flag buntings and banners. Flags adorn the streets and sidewalks. World War II-era cars are brought out and bear flags erected on the hoods and rear bumpers.
When my children were in grade school, the preparations started early. A couple of days before, my husband and son, and later my daughter, would build model rockets from a kit. We always went out on the lake the day before with friends, first on a sailboat, and when the kids got older, a speedboat. When my son was younger, he would just be finishing the summer baseball season.
Their Dad and I would get up early to decorate the bikes for the parade and make the food we were bringing to share. Each of us would wear patriotic attire selected in advance. The truck would be packed up with the bikes, cooler full of food and beverages, and head to our cousin’s house for the 10:00 A.M. parade. I created a Fourth of July music playlist we listened to during the morning preparations. The parade consisted of the children on their decorated bikes, strollers, or scooters. Our aunt and uncle would come into town for the week trailering my Uncle’s golf cart for the older second cousins to drive in the parade.
We would walk along with our two children on the parade route, pushing my daughter’s stroller, and later walking alongside as she rode her bike. My son was independent on his bike riding with his older cousin’s. The parade watchers consisted of the homeowners along the route and residents of the neighborhood.
My husband became resourceful bringing my son into the planning. there were 25 plus adults and children all vying to get water from the only outside source, one coveted water spicket.
After the parade, there was a carnival at the township park. The dunking tank was a highlight for my son. One of our cousin’s and his family lived right up from the park and would host a backyard cookout with the extended family, their friends, and neighbors. It was a tradition after everyone was fed, a water fight would ensue. The funny thing about it was there were 25 plus adults and children all vying to get water from the only outside source, one coveted water spicket. Parents and kids, usually composed and well-behaved, became sneaky and ruthless. As the years passed, the adults become more resourceful. Large Tupperware and mixing bowls full of water would come out of the house, carried by the moms who waited inside for the right moment to ambush their targeted victim. Adults on the sidelines used small children as shields (reasons for not being a target).
My husband became resourceful bringing my son into the planning. One year the two of them brought their own water source, large 5-gallon buckets hiding in the back of the truck pre-filled with water from home. He armed my son with a water blaster that would hold the most substantial amount of water he could carry and still have the precision to create a good soaking.
The children and their fathers approached the launching pad when it was their turn, like astronauts walking to the Space Shuttle.
After everyone was sufficiently soaked, we changed our clothes and then headed to a different neighborhood park to shoot off model rockets. The tradition started as a school project for one of the older second cousins, and it continued and grew from there. The children and their fathers approached the launching pad when it was their turn, like astronauts walking to the Space Shuttle. We did it every year until the older second cousins moved on to backyard sand volleyball.
My son was a terrific croquet player, and my daughter was right there with him. They would play in our backyard, him being her coach
Around 3:00 P.M. we headed to my husband’s other cousin’s home for a serious tournament of croquet, dinner, and fireworks over the lake. White was the attire for the occasion or something along those lines. Ralph Lauren style would be fitting; J. Crew for the younger participants. My son was a terrific croquet player, and my daughter was right there with him. They would play in our backyard, him being her coach. She made it to the final round the last two years and tied for second place in the most recent one. The evening would end around midnight. Our aunt and uncle both have passed now; our aunt just last November, the same day of the month my mom died. Each of us missed their presence as well.
The next day, when my son dropped off the boat keys, we had the pleasure of exchanging stories about our days.
When my son got older, he did his own thing. A couple of summers he worked away from home at a summer camp. Last year he took the boat out on the lake, during the day, packed with friends up to the limit the boat could legally hold. Facebook records happy times with his friends on the boat beginning back when he was in high school. He brought a friend to the house in the morning to make guacamole and sandwich wraps.
I played patriotic music from a variety of genres in the background to get us in the mood. The music I exposed my children to comes from all genres and created a connection we had to each other. I discovered my son took this with him after logging into his Spotify account.
My playlist included the classics played by the Boston Pops; country by C.W. McCall, Lee Greenwood, Toby Keith. Jazz artists Louis Armstrong, Ray Charles, and others. Easy listening artists such as Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters. Finally, rock/pop by Jimi Hendrix, Bruce Springsteen, Don McLean, and Bob Dylan.
My daughter and I were busy salvaging a strawberry cupcake trifle, and their father was chopping the ingredients for the dish we traditionally share: Black Bean, Tropical Fruit, and Queso Blanco Salsa (Van Aken, 2003) modified because I make it now from the taste. While working on the cake, I guided my son and his friend through the instructions for guacamole, one of which was to mash the avocados. I periodically checked in on their progress. I did not provide adequate instructions: I found his friend smashing the avocados on the cutting board, not in a bowl! The next day, when my son dropped off the boat keys, we had the pleasure of exchanging stories about our days.
Nothing new can happen between us, just memories now.
The model rockets and supplies now sit on the shelf in the basement. The handmade decorations I saved from their bikes and the house are packed away. Nothing new can happen between us, just memories now. There is no more boating with him, no more helping him to be a host, no more friends over to our house. No more new stories of his day.
I will treasure the memories I have of my aunt and uncle interacting with my children, treating them special, as if their own grandchildren.
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