Lordy, I love the 4th of July! What’s not to love? Fireworks — picnics — homemade ice cream — kids allowed to play with matches AND explosives at the same time! Groups of people getting together to witness to their oneness as a family, a neighborhood, and a nation. And you don’t have to dress up or buy anyone a present! YOUR being present is the gift.

And you can count on this summer holiday. It’s a fixed point. I get a big kick out of a locker room story my husband told me years ago. At the end of a patrol shift change meeting, one of the younger deputies asked, “Hey, guys — when is Cinco de Mayo this year?” (I’m hoping he was the only one wondering about that!) No such worries about the 4th of July. It is serenely independent. I doesn’t give a damn about following a weekend or making itself convenient for you, me, or the Teamsters Union. It’s THE FOURTH OF JULY, for Pete’s sake — plain and simple. It’s in YOUR face as much as it was in King George’s — although to a lesser degree. You’re just gonna have to work around it.

My earliest 4th of July memory comes from the early 1950’s. Our family was invited to a nearby country club for dinner and a fireworks show. I recall none of the specifics — only the feelings — that this was a very big deal, or honor, or both. Dad and the other men played golf all day and at supper time their families were invited to join them to “dine” at the club. I recall a lot of thought and fuss about what we’d wear. It was important that we look good. Mom had to get my older sister and brother ready to go, as well as me! I felt special. I was only 4 years old and this was my first “event.” I was bathed and dressed in a crisply ironed cotton dress, with a matching hair ribbon, and wore freshly polished white shoes. Mom looked beautiful in her spaghetti strap summer cocktail dress, cinched in at the waist, the full skirt poofed out with a can-can petticoat. She wore sparkly chunky clip-on earrings and a matching bracelet. Right before she loaded us in the Chrysler Imperial, she gave her platinum blonde coif a huge blast of Aqua Net hairspray, hoping to keep herself as fresh and perfect as possible in the humid summer air. She tucked her red Revlon lipstick into her purse, tucked us into the family car, and we were on our way. It was so exciting!

It was a classic buffet lawn supper — a chef or two in tall white hats, the kind of hat that Chef Boyardee wore in his picture on the cans of ravioli that Mom bought at the IGA each week. There were twinkling lights and tinkling ice cubes –chatting and polite laughter. The men looked so dapper in their summer sport coats and ties. My favorite buffet item was the dessert: dixie cups of Sealtest ice cream, complete with a small wooden spoon wrapped in paper. The best part was the lid. When you pulled it off the cup, on the back as a picture of a movie star! Gee whiz — kind of like baseball cards, but cooler! Once you licked off the ice cream you might see Gary Cooper or Dick Powell, or a beautiful lady like Elizabeth Taylor or Doris Day smiling back at you. These famous faces added real class to the event for a 4-year-old. I was dazzled.

When supper was over we took our seats on the fairway for the fireworks show. And what magic! There was a “chunk” sound below, then a sparkling trail going up, up, up — and suddenly a glorious spray of color and light in the night sky. So pretty! I had never seen anything like it. And these miracles kept coming! I was delighted in every way. Everyone was. The crowed murmured “ooh” and “aah” in unison like a thrilled greek chorus. It was beautiful. It was heaven.

Then suddenly — horror! Another sparkling trail went up but at the top there was a terrible explosion and a big round flash of harsh white light. It terrified me. Had something gone wrong? No one screamed — a few people laughed. I was confused. More shells went up and they were pretty, but then another glittering trail tricked me with a dreadful white explosion. I began to feel afraid. What would happen next? I started to cry and put my face in my mother’s lap. I wanted to look so badly — but what if there was another explosion? Mom told me to look up — it was so pretty — it would be all right. But I couldn’t. And when I felt brave enough to peek, sometimes another bomb would explode. There was no sense to it — there was no warning. Why would someone do something so mean? Why wasn’t it always pretty? It seemed cruel to me. I kept wanting to look, trying to look, hoping for that glorious light — but the bombs were too much for me. Then show was over and it was time to go home.

I felt so ashamed. My mother told me to look and that it was all right, but I couldn’t. I didn’t understand the terrible bombs. I couldn’t look. And it would be a whole year until I could see those beautiful lights again! I was angry and sad. I loved and hated that show. What a loss, I thought — what a loss– all because I was afraid of what might happen next.

I read online you don’t see those bombs at fireworks shows anymore. I learned those shells were called “dago bombs” — yep, there’s a story there — and now they’re illegal. Back in the day, perhaps they added to the excitement of the show. Maybe they were a nod to the Revolutionary War, to the “bombs bursting in air.” And this was the fifties! No one worried one bit about damaging children’s hearing, or triggering PTSD in all those World War II vets, or even offending Italians! Fireworks shows — and sensibilities — are kinder and gentler these days. Dago bombs are against the law. A thing of the past. You just don’t see them anymore.

Or do you?

Now that I’m an old lady it occurs to me that life itself is very much like that 1950’s fireworks show. Lovely things happen — “Will you marry me?” “It’s a girl!” “I got the tickets!” “I love you.” “We’d like to offer you the position.” “I cannot EVER thank you enough.” But sad to say, there’s just no law against dago bombs. Into every one of our sweet little lives a few dago bombs will fall. “It’s cancer.” “I just can’t live with you anymore.” “There’s been an accident.” “There’s a problem with your account.” “We believe it was suicide.” Any day that starts out with a burst of hope and gratitude could end in an explosion of joy — or dread. And we really just never know, do we? We might begin to worry. We might begin to fear what might happen next.

Gather ’round children — here’s my take away this 4th of July.

When beauty comes to you, enjoy it. Reach out and take in as much delight as you possibly can. Celebrate with tears of joy. Revel with gusto. It’s perfectly okay to ooh and aah in appreciation and gratitude, and it’s much more fun to do this with a group! Let others celebrate with you. Let others love you. Savor every moment. Wonder with delight what the next beautiful thing might be. Look forward to finding out! Above all, take a moment to be grateful you are here to see it.

And when the bomb comes, the blast will shock you. It will be hard to speak for a moment or two — or days — or weeks. You won’t understand. You will cry. Other people will not notice your fear or grief and you won’t understand that either. Sometimes you may even hear them laughing, and it will make no sense. You will feel very alone. Then dear one, look around for a comforting lap. Someone to listen. Lean in and rest. Cry even more, and try to look up — when you begin to feel a little brave. And then, perhaps you will remember something that was beautiful. You were so lucky to see it. And eventually you might realize this: it’s just a show. Most of it has been quite pretty. It’s been beautiful. A group or friend can help you here, too.

My husband tells me he plans to put “Light Fuse — Get Away” on my tombstone. I like that. Yes, I am a serial enthusiast. But I hope I have learned something in this mayfly-long, fever-dream life I have been given. It comes down to this: Life here has something to do with light, love, and beauty. This is what is real, though at times it’s difficult to see. You will be afraid sometimes. You might even start to fear what’s next. Ask for help when needed. Nap when you can. And one thing more: keep looking up.

The cake mixes were 4 for a dollar and that was a good thing.  I wasn’t sure how many it would take to make our wedding cake.  I was new at this, starting to teach myself how to make food for people I loved.  Some folks have fond recollections of making meat loaf with Mom, or learning the secrets of perfect pastry in a farmhouse kitchen somewhere in the blissful past with a Grandma old and wrinkled and warm.  I’d had none of that – food was important in our family, but it was an afterthought, not an offering.

I was in college – a girl of the first generation in my family to have such a gift and privilege.  As far as food was concerned, I’d been trained to set and clear the table (my brother had no such duties – he was confined to the lawn mower) – but I was never invited into the steam, sputtering oil, and billowing clouds of flour that made up the mysterious world of cooking.  It must have been regarded as beneath me.  My job was to study, get good grades, practice the piano, and marry well.  “Make something better of yourself!” seemed to be the message.  Don’t make sandwiches!

But here I was – 20 years old, preparing to get married against my father’s wishes, living with a girlfriend in a firetrap apartment in a rickety old house – about to declare my independence and launch my life into a trajectory that would forever after be out of kilter with “what we expected.”  But I was elated.  I was going to be me.

Steve and I had been crazy in love since high school.  We were old enough now, nearly adults, and so eager to find our own way.  We had around $300 between us – money left over from summer jobs – so we bought Steve a new set of clothes, got a case of Andre’s pink champagne and a box of kitchen dixie cups, scored 5 dozen daisies from a confused florist, and with what was left over, an off-the-rack wedding dress for me from a fancy department store in Kansas City.  I didn’t know you had to order the dress ahead of time, but the lady took pity on me and sold me one of the ones you try on – a floor model, not too badly defiled with other girls’ makeup and BO.  We wrote some vows (mostly lifted from Gibran’s The Prophet) and found a campus minister willing to preside.  Danforth Chapel was free at 5pm on January 20^th – Steve’s 21^st birthday.  We were set.

The cake mix and a dozen eggs set me back about $3.  I didn’t have any cake pans but by asking around my apartment house I came up with 4 frying pans of different sizes.  It was deep January and so cold there wasn’t enough gas in the old house to bring my oven over 200 degrees, so progress was slow but steady.  When the four larger layers of something like white cake were done I baked a small top layer in a saucepan.  I remembered seeing my mother make frosting out of milk and butter and powdered sugar so I blended them as best as I could and slathered the cake together.  I had a small figurine of Winnie the Pooh so I put him on top.  Since it was Steve’s birthday 21 candles seemed appropriate – and we could sing!  And just for extra dazzle, I scattered a package of small paper American flags on toothpicks up and down the sides.   After all, we’d recently watched the Vietnam Draft Lottery on TV and it felt important to express our patriotism.  Our country was at war.  Steve got a high number – 275, I think – but friends who would attend our wedding were not so lucky.  One already had enlisted in the National Guard.  The other was talking about Canada.  But on this day, at that moment, the war, our lives, and all our “ever afters” were still ahead.  And we weren’t afraid of any of it.

I spent an awfully long time – too many years – being ashamed of that cake.  Not ashamed of its appearance, but sad that our wedding had made my father so unhappy he refused to attend.  I had defied him and was told I had broken his heart.  That beat went on.  Years later, when my mom lived with us, she’d sometimes speak wistfully of the fact that they’d just bought a lovely new home and she’d hoped to have our wedding reception there.  Too bad, she’d say, too bad you couldn’t wait.  It would have been a lovely party.

It took me 30 years to one day suddenly become giddily proud of that cake – I made it myself, I marveled to me. I MADE MY OWN WEDDING CAKE!  That cake was the first meal Steve and I shared as husband and wife.  It was the start of our 51-year banquet we called “our life together,” a jolly run at making something out of nothing.  We liked to do that.  And we were pretty good at it.

The cake must have tasted okay.  There wasn’t any left, and there was no wine left over either.  That January day, those who attended wished us well, and we returned the same good wishes to them.  Looking back, I can see it was our Last Supper as students, as children, as friends.  It was a communion of sorts.  The sacred elements were wonky white cake and cheap pink wine in dixie cups. Soon we would all “go forth” to new lives, personal challenges, and uncertain futures.  But just think: my cake fueled us all for the journey. I am so grateful.