I was going to mow the lawn today, but the grass is too soggy from last night's rain. The heat and humidity today are ghastly, so I guess I'll just stay in and do some work on my Marx trains. Pretty tame stuff, compared to the Fourth of Julys I spent with my family in the early Fifties.
When I was a kid, the Fourth always meant that my aunt, uncle and cousin would come to visit. We'd be up late the night before, preparing food for the next day's cookout, then rising early to load the cars with folding chairs, charcoal grill, beach blankets and -- of course -- food. An impartial observer would have thought we were getting ready for an expedition to parts unknown, based on the provisions we were carrying.
Then we'd be off bright and early for the Whipple's Dam State Park, where we'd grab a prime picnic table (under the trees for shade, but still close to the water). It wasn't easy, for the park was enormously popular, and it was standing room only, even on normal weekends. But the Fourth was the very pinnacle of all summer celebrations, and eager pilgrims flocked to it from all over the state, in frenzied throngs.
Once we were unpacked, The Old Folks (they were in their thirties at the time, and unimaginably elderly) would sit around talking endlessly about boring grownup things, while us kids would head at once for the beach. The lake water (fed by a mountain stream) was always frigidly cold even on the hottest days, and we eased ourselves into it with gritted teeth, then emerged minutes later, shivering and goosebumped, ready to dry off for a hike around the lake. This ordeal would be repeated several times as the day wore on. It was summertime, and by God, no matter how unpleasant it might be, we had to go swimming!
By mid-afternoon, it was time for Dad to light the charcoal grill, an elaborate process that required an expert's touch with artistic applications of lighter fluid and many wooden matches. Once the ritual blaze was reliably begun, foil-wrapped corn and potatoes would slowly roast to perfection, followed hours later by hamburger patties that sizzled and flared on the grate as they dripped grease into the glowing coals.
As darkness fell, we'd roast marshmallows on sticks carefully gathered from the forest floor. And finally, as the park began to close for the day, Dad would extinguish the fire with cups of lake water and dump the cold coals in the nearest metal wastecan. By the beams of flickering flashlights, we'd carefully pack up and head out through the gathering dark, always the last to leave, just ahead of the ever-vigilant park rangers.
At home, the perishable foods would be taken out and stuffed in the refrigerator, but everything else would wait for the next day's light. While the grownups showered gratefully, us kids would hurry out onto the night-shrouded sidewalk to light sparklers and snakes, ensuring the continuation of American Independence for another year.
That night, we slept the sleep of righteous exhaustion, knowing as we did that Summertime would last forever.
And Somewhere, I believe, it still does.
