partying like it’s 1776

It’s Independence Day, and I’m celebrating my independence from work by lolling on the sofa in old, comfy clothes; idly watching DVDs; reading; updating my website; and writing this entry. Because I work 800 jobs, free days are few and far between, and I am relishing it. But there will be no veggie burgers on the grill and no fireworks for me this year; it’s too hot to schlep anywhere for fireworks (not to mention the fact that thunderstorms are expected), and…well, I don’t have a grill. So my all-American 4th of July feast will most likely consist of vegetarian salmon smothered in Swedish salmon sauce. Rock on!

When I was a kid the 4th of July was always a lot more traditional. With the exception of a few out-of-state jaunts to visit my aunt, uncle, and cousins, the holiday was generally spent in our backyard, with my grandparents as visitors, making hamburgers, hot dogs, and corn on the cob on our little coal hibachi (followed by gooey marshmallows later in the day, as the coals burned down into delicate gray pillows). Sometimes we set up the badminton kit and played a few rounds. Mostly we just hung out and relaxed until it was time to watch fireworks from the grassy slope across the street from Hills department store. The slope abutted the county prison, which was a nice touch of irony, considering the prisoners were far from being independent and free.

When I was an Anglophiliac teenager, the 4th of July was an occasion to lament the Redcoats’ loss of the war. While I do admit that there would’ve been some perks to the Brits winning (namely, no Dubya as president, and I wouldn’t have to pay ridiculous import prices for my Yorkie bars and issues of Heat magazine), at the end of the day, I recognize how lucky I am to live in a country that—while quite flawed, as most countries are—is nonetheless independent and allows me to be fairly free. I honor every soldier who died for this freedom.

I couldn’t tell you which July 4th was my favorite, but I do clearly remember which one was the worst. It was in 2000, when I was 26. I was on my way to Virginia to meet up with my friend Gates; we were going to try to catch either DC’s or Alexandria’s fireworks display from the roof of her office building in Falls Church. When I stopped for gas near my apartment, my car—my dear, beloved, not-so-trusty Dymphna—died. Because of the holiday, AAA didn’t have a lot of staff working, and I ended up having to wait pretty much the entire day for a tow. That wasn’t even the worst part of the day, though.

The worst part was when a couple stopped for gas and decided to give their orange tabby Ozzy an opportunity to stretch his legs (they were from out of state and were presumably in the midst of a long journey). Before the woman could get a good grip on his leash, he slipped away and immediately bolted toward the busy road running alongside the gas station. As she screamed and chased him, he successfully made it across the first two lanes. A grassy bulge separated these lanes from the other side of the road, and after he disappeared across the bulge, I heard a terrible thump that will always be tattooed in my memory. The woman and I raced over to him and pulled him onto the grassy strip. He died in her arms and we both bawled while she cradled him. Being an animal lover who owns two cats, it was a wrenching accident to witness—one that I will never forget.



song heard most recently before posting: The Land Between Solar Systems—Múm