The Fourth…

We didn’t grow up with cousins but we had lots of friends.  And our backyard was full of them every July 4th when Dad would barbecue half the afternoon away.  No one had an electric grill back then – just old-fashioned hunger-inducing charcoal that had to turn ashen before the grate could be placed on top along with hamburgers and hotdogs.  Those burgers were patted and pressed by Mom’s busy hands in the kitchen that morning.

There was watermelon (with seeds), potato salad and corn.  And God help the poor kid who got called out to do the husking on the back porch.  It was a lonely task that nobody wanted.  For dessert, we had ice cream in the form of Hoodsie Cups, each with their own little wooden spatula that was not quite a spoon and when overused turned into a frightful sliver maker for our cold tongues.

We mostly got in the way or tried to stay busy by racing around the driveway on any bike available or on roller skates, or the Pogo stick we had for only one year and had to share.  I never really got the hang of that but then I never really had a good chance to try it with everyone crying out for a turn.  The younger ones ending up with tracks of dried salty tears from trying to keep up.

Fortunately, there was a large cooler at our disposal filled with ice cubes and soda bottles that we called “tonic”.  The beer was in another cooler near the grill, manned by a grown up.  But both containers were down to only a few inches of icy water by nightfall.

In New England, the Fourth always brings the first sticky weather.  This meant that we needed lots of popsicles and freeze-pops – those frozen solid ices in garish colors like blue and bright green.  Showing off your colored tongue was mandatory.  And annoyingly, one friend or brother or sister was sure to lick their popsicle slower than the rest so they could be last to finish and have the envy of everyone else, if only for a minute or two.  Popsicle consumption was cut-off as soon as the grill was ready.

After eating together on our one picnic table or if you were lucky, with your paper plate precariously balanced on your lap while sitting on the front stoop, squished thigh to thigh with five others, it was time to settle in for the firework show we had been pining for.  Hot and sticky, with dried popsicle juice on our arms and chins, we would perch on the rail fence that divided our yard from the neighbors.  From there, we had a perfect view of the Roman candles, the Poppers, and the Rockets that lit up the sky from Ward Park, way past downtown near Fairmount Hill.  We could hear the Ground Spinners sizzling off but they were too low to see and invariably we would complain collectively and loudly for the injustice of it all.  Sometimes even a wayward bomb would get obscured by the fat water tower on the Hill but just as we gave up all hope, its tails would slither and pierce the dark indigo sky with neon confetti, seemingly so close we would reach our hands up to try to touch it.

After the final bombardment, it was time to say goodbye to the friends and their parents.  The hollow sounds of slammed car doors and horns accompanied us into the house.  It was just as well because the mosquitoes were now out in force.  But by morning the hum of the cicadas reminded us that summer was truly underway and its best day had already passed…