4th of July

WBLM used to do a radio show on the 4th of July, playing the top 100 hits. I think it must have been of the decade because I always remember listening to Led Zepplin. It provided us with a soundtrack to fight sleep with as we were stuck in traffic trying to get out of Thomaston after the fireworks. We were trying to be awake to spit watermelon seeds out at Aunt Edith’s house. It was pitch dark, we would sit with the cousins lined up on the rocks of her stonewall by her little square of patio bricks that we called “the breezeway.”

This would be our return trip to Aunt Edith’s house as she hosted a cookout during the day every 4th of July. This sounds mundane to my 45 year old ears...a cookout. Cookouts are a dime a dozen in my life now. But back then, that was the only cookout we ever were invited to.

Our life in Tennessee was shadowed and solitary. Summers in Maine were filled with dappled sunlight and family. The 4th of July was the only holiday we were able to celebrate with family. Our childless, holiday-loving, great Aunt Edith and Uncle Charlie were always happy to share the celebrations with us. They would come and get us and take us to the 4th of July parade, and later we would go to their house for the cookout. I don’t remember these distinctly until I was older and brought friends along with me, marking the years by pictures that I had an interest in. Sometimes there were more relatives around the table than others. I imagine there were years when my cousins weren’t allowed to frolic all day with us, but the best years have them in the memories. It was one of the few meals I ever got to see my mother sit down and enjoy. Uncle Charlie always manned the grill, and we ate and took advantage of their hospitality, as we would for years to come.

We would then head off to the fireworks and park at Uncle Charlie’s sister’s house in Thomaston. I don’t think Charlie and Edith ever came with us to them. But they would be waiting for us, far past their bedtime, with watermelon slices to stop by after. When I think of all those seeds we spit everywhere, I can only now imagine that the 5th of July consisted of Aunt Edith on the ground picking up each and every seed. She was as fastidious as she was gracious.

I doubt we even sincerely thanked Aunt Edith and Uncle Charlie for their kindness. We were pretty ungrateful little scoundrels. But every 4th of July, I think of them and our times with them.  I remember the smell of burgers Uncle Charlie cooked to perfection, endless games of tether ball and frisbee, the sun on their back lawn, my grandmother’s unusually stifled laughter, and watching the strange family dynamics unfold when the men joined the women once a year out in Aunt Edith’s backyard. Aunt Edith’s was traditionally a place for women and children to gather and have muffins and tea.

But the best moments were the dark sleepy hours after our senses were satiated by the boom and blossom of what seemed endless fireworks, the feel of watermelon melting in my mouth as I sucked in seeds to fire out, the feeling of being safe in the dark with family, up past my bedtime, happy from another year of doing the exact same thing as we had done every year before. There is something so quintessentially beautiful in the predictability of tradition for me. I think about this every 4th as I remember my family and especially Aunt Edith and Uncle Charlie. They carved their place into all of our memories by offering that same tradition every year.

I think of traditions and memories of Aunt Edith as we drive home every 4th of July after a cookout at my children’s Nanny’s camp, after they have spent the day with their aunts and uncle and cousins. I remember all the years of my babies toddling by Nanny’s lake, decked out in 4th of July clothes that would only fit for a year, as their Grampy manned the grill and Nanny made her strawberry delight--before there were cousins, before Larry was “Uncle”, when Jodi seemed less of an aunt and more of a playmate who was always willing to swim with them. I think of how they have carved and are carving their place into my children’s memories and creating a sense of tradition my children will carry with them their entire life. I hope they know what grateful scoundrels we are.