The Fourth

     A startling thing happened to me on this past Fourth of July. I became a patriot. I was not snarky for even one single minute: it was miraculous. I had fun, damn it, and lots of it. It was a red, white and blue miracle, and, please, let me explain why this was so unusual for me...

     You see, past Fourth of Julys have not been as pride producing, as flag waving, or as non-snarky. Long, long ago, I was part owner of a motel in a shore town that shall remain nameless, but it is the actual Webster Definition of the word "tacky": seriously, look up the word tacky, you'll see the name of the town.  Our motel was a small but clean motel, but as the economy tanked, the clientele got less and less clean. They started drinking at about noon, after waking up on a pool chair from their previous night's bender, and by 3 o'clock in the afternoon they liked to draw signs in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our motel:

                                 YO!!   Go To Room 214 for a grate time!!!"

     (Their spelling, not mine. I have spell check.) And that was just the young ladies; the young gentlemen were checking their weapons in case someone undesirable came to Room 214, and by undesirable I mean they didn't have the prerequisite money or drugs. So The Fourth of July, like Labor Day, Memorial Weekend (and I still can't talk about Memorial Weekend without a facial tic) were especially horrific. Heinous Holidays.

    But that was then, and this is now. This year on the Fourth of July, for the first time in a really long time, I went to see the fireworks. The whole family went. While we waited for "dusk", I tried to explain what "dusk" meant to the 5 year old, and we sat on the ground on reusable plastic shopping bags because we forgot blankets and they were the only things in the car. The kids danced to the music (positively blaring from the speakers, but that didn't even bother me, which is really unusual...that's when I knew I must be experiencing a Patriotic High).  Next to us, to the great embarrassment of his children, one very tall white man tried to moonwalk on the grass, in sneakers.
It. Was. Delightful.

     The fireworks started: they were as loud and aah-inspiring as they were supposed to be, and even the musical accompaniment--everything from Kate Smith (God Bless America) to Katy Perry (Baby, You're a Firework)--was great. (I actually teared up a little during God Bless America, until my daughter leaned over and asked me if that was me singing. Smart-Ass Kid.) There was blue cotton candy, the kids got some stuck in their hair, and after the long walk back to the car, they fell asleep on the ride home. Perfect. A Perfect Holiday. We all agreed that we'll have to do it again sometime: how 'bout next year?  Maybe next year we'll remember the blankets. Meh... maybe not. As long as you've got Kate Smith, you don't need no stinkin' blankets.

     GBA, Kate. We had a grate time.