My Fifty-eighth Fourth: Looking Back

One of those unsubstantiated news polls going around claimed that a large percentage of people questioned didn’t know why we celebrated the Fourth of July.  I don’t trust polls in general, since (1. I rarely answer them with any degree of seriousness; (2. I have my doubts about people who have time or inclination in the middle of the day (or supper) to answer survey questions.

I do remember one young lady I taught who asked her new employer if they ever got any holidays. When she was told they had Independence Day off, she said, “Independence Day? Good lands! What’s that?”  In all fairness, she’s also the girl who got up during home room to check the dictionary when someone told her “gullible” wasn’t in there.)

I’ve had so many memorable Fourths. The best childhood memories always included an early ride to Mars Hill school to buy several containers of chicken stew. A year or two, I also helped the previous night as a chicken picker or tater chopper, with everyone working together, singing old gospel hymns as we worked. The authentic recipe requires massive quantities cooked over a fire in big cast iron pots, stirred with a boat paddle. It has taken me years since I moved from North Alabama to figure out how to make a smaller quantity that tastes like the original. I think I may be there.

One particularly special Fourth, the Bicentennial celebration, I spent in Philadelphia with my friend Robin and her husband, a new medical student there. I had helped them moved not much before, and I begged to join them for the big celebration. Elton John’s “Philadelphia Freedom” was a hit that week.  I think “Rhinestone Cowboy” too.  We dig all the fun tourist points, touched, the Liberty Bell (right on the crack), sat in a park one night listening to patriotic music accompanied by fireworks (and yes, they were red, white, and blue!)

We watched the countdown clock to the precise second when the Declaration of Independence was signed, and then on the evening of the Fourth, we went to the rooftop to watch a synchronized fireworks show across the city, reportedly using more gun powder than was shot during the entire Revolutionary War.

In 1997, I left Charlotte on the afternoon of the Fourth flying to China with my best friend Debbie and her family to adopt their second daughter Allie. Since they had chosen to bring their five-year-old Darby along for the two weeks, I came to be an extra set of hands. The transition from poolside party to Hong Kong, just that week handed over from Great Britain to China, was a bit of a culture shock, especially since the Chinese military made quite a presence. Nothing makes one aware of nationality like spending time in a city of six million people (Wuhan in Hubei provide) without seeing any other Caucasians except our traveling companions.  I must say, though, we were treating with kindness as well as curiosity.

For the first several years in North Carolina, the Fourth was a day we spent traditionally with friends, an all-day event starting with early morning golf, a day at the pool or riding the pontoon on Lake Hickory, then Bar-B-Q and fixings, massive fireworks, and some beautiful voices singing our best-loved patriotic songs. That tradition was broken by the untimely loss of our dear friend and host. Since then, the “usuals” have dispersed, building other new traditions.  I have no doubt that I’m not alone in stopping for awhile today to remember our friend.