Fourth of July

For Gerard Vanderleun, who took a chance and first published this piece in American Digest. Always generous with advice and encouragement, the great writer and editor passed away earlier this year.

It’s the Fourth of July again. Every year it comes along a week after my birthday, which seems to be coming sooner every year. For reasons only God knows and doesn’t explain.  

I’ve been invited to the country club for fireworks, food, and festivities. My daughter comes along, and Johnna’s son, who is in town for a visit and always a pleasure to have around. We’re all three food lovers, and the spread at the club is classic American picnic. Hot dogs, hamburgers, and pulled pork barbecue sandwiches. I load up a hot dog with mustard and pickles, Chicago style, and join the celebration. 

The setting here is lush and expansive. We unfold our chairs near the tee box of the tenth hole, with a view off down the fairway. A deejay is jamming a nice mix of rock, soul, and country. Children are playing in the grass, adults mingling, women in their sundresses and men in golf shorts and polos, shirts tucked in tight. Rich people watching, I take a seat and pop the cap on a cold beer. The air, even at 8:00 PM, is heavy and dense, the tops of the tall Georgia pines completely still. No breeze at all.

Walking back to the buffet, a man is upset with a young employee. Something about the Porta Potties being too far down the fairway and the clubhouse restrooms up too steep a hill. Of course it’s not her fault, and she offers to drive him up in a cart but he’s having none of it. The gist of it is he’s just having a bad day and has to share it. But one also gets the feeling this is normal behavior for him. She is at a loss in how to respond, and nothing she says will make a difference anyway. He just needs to vent. About who knows what, really. The walk up is maybe forty yards and I do it in a couple of minutes. It’s well worth it for a little time in the air conditioning, and I take my time.

A few dark clouds start to drift in, bringing scattered drops of rain. Umbrellas come out and then it stops, but at least now it’s a little cooler. Still not completely dark at 9:15 but with more clouds crowding in they decide to start the fireworks anyway. 

And it’s a good show. One of the best in Atlanta, I’ve been told. Fifty thousand dollars worth I’ve also heard. I tell my daughter I remember her first Fourth of July fireworks. How she was a year old and terrified, crying the whole time. She scrunches up her face and shakes her head. I think she is worried now about her new puppy alone at home, probably also terrified. Traumatized. Hiding under the bed.  

As the grand finale winds up a few large drops begin in earnest. Quickly we fold our chairs and walk back toward the car. By the time we get there it is really starting to come down, a major summer rain storm. Lightning bolts light up the sky, followed by the crack and roar of thunder. The thunder actually shakes the air. We load up quickly, already half soaked. The rain is coming down in sideways sheets, our wipers are full on and it’s still not enough. Low spots in the road are starting to flood and we slow to a crawl through the standing water. 

Every car is inching along as we pass Walmart, and as more lightning illuminates the road, I am surprised to see one lone man, an older Latino gentleman on a bicycle, riding the sidewalk beside us. Bags of groceries hang from his handlebars as he peddles through the puddles, into the driving rain, toward home I assume. We lock eyes for a moment and he nods his head at me. I nod back through the glass, one American to another. Safe travels my friend. 

And Happy Birthday America. Lighten up, be kind, count your blessings. Everything’s going to be OK.