Perhaps
you are skimming through the paper this weekend at a relative’s house. Perhaps
you are in town for the holiday and to get together with your family. Perhaps
it’s something that happens annually or perhaps not. Perhaps you might slow
down and remember what growing up and the Fourth of July was like.
Our
family farm Fourth was always the day to put up the corn from the garden. Dad
would gather the ears in egg baskets, and then family members sat in a circle
under the elm tree. There we shucked, silked, and cleaned the juicy ears of
Peaches and Cream sweet corn. The next step was wrapping the corn, still on the
cob, in aluminum foil and putting them in bags. They were counted and stored in
the deep freeze for many family meals through the fall and winter.
We would
call a few friends to share corn with, one was my second grade teacher and her husband, Jack Nuckolls. Jack would
pick up the corn and me, and I’d go eat lunch at their house.
Some
years the Fourth would mean a trip to Honey Creek to swim. It’s funny to think
that we grew up two miles from the lake, but going swimming always meant the
creek. I was 9 or 10 before I ever got into the lake. We were farm kids, not
lake kids.
As I drive
through the four-state area, I’m a bit overwhelmed at the number of fireworks businesses.
Back in the 70’s, I can only remember a couple of fireworks stands. One was
always run by the cheerleaders, and that was the one all the football boys seemed
to hang around... Our dad never spent over ten bucks on fireworks, and we went
late in the day on the fourth to get them. We got an assortment of Black Cats,
sparklers, and Roman candles. We would have a dozen pop bottle rockets that we
really shot from pop bottles. We had a tiny box of black snakes. We lit the
little pellet and the dark tube of ash would grow, amazing us.
Our
brown bag of firecrackers were usually shared with the neighbors. They would
bring their $10 stash down and the show got bigger. This was usually done with
the sound of the electric ice cream freezer grinding in the background. When we
moved from hand crank to electric, it meant the dads could light the night
works while moms watched the freezer, which made it more fun. We were barefoot
in the grass swinging bent sparklers and we “Ohhhh’ed” and “Ahhhh’ed” over the rhythmic pulse of the Roman candle as it delivered
it’s dozen colorful shimmers into the night sky. All this was done across the
yard, across the gravel road, stuck in the pipe gate. I’m sure it took longer
for Dad to walk it over there than it did to blow it up.
The
taste of salty ice on the lid of the
freezer can. The smell of the fresh corn. The sound of a string of Black Cats
exploding. The sting of the tiny sparkler sparks hitting my arm. But most of
all, being with my family making memories that are still vivid, fifty years
later. Your little people are making these memories this weekend. Make some
good ones.
