It’s been a stressful few years in these United States, and it’s going to get a whole lot dicier before too long.
So let’s take a break today and talk about some of the stuff that unites us, or may amuse us, or bring back memories of a time that seemed far less complicated — at least to us — than it is now.
Fireworks spring to mind, because what’s July 4 without them? I’ll be down Lynn Beach Wednesday night, if I have to crawl, to watch them. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.
I’ll never forget the first time I ever saw fireworks. Oddly enough, it wasn’t associated with the holiday. It was up at Hampton Beach, N.H., on a Wednesday night as part of the town’s weekly fireworks display. Don’t ask me how, back in the early 1960s, Hampton could afford to shoot them off weekly when we have to have GoFundMes and other events to raise money for them now, but somehow, it managed.
You know how fireworks scare the daylights out of dogs, and how they all end up hiding under the bed at the first report?
I was in the penthouse of a unit across from where the Hampton Beach fireworks were shot off. This was some work associate of my father’s, if I recall, and to snag a spot up there on the balcony was somewhat like getting a Monster Seat at Fenway. Prime viewing!
Only I wasn’t the least bit interested. I couldn’t hide under the bed, but I ran into a closet instead and closed the door. I was petrified. The adults thought it was hilarious, of course, and I forget who, exactly, was there besides my sister, but I’m pretty sure they were laughing at me too. It took a little while for me to garner up enough nerve to stand on the beach and watch them (I read about someone getting burned by one and that set me back a couple of years, at least).
My love/hate relationship with fireworks was a big part of my youth. Every year, the “big kids” in the neighborhood would drive around with bags and bags of firecrackers, cherry bombs, barrel bombs, and other assorted explosives. On the night before the Fourth, they’d all gather on our street and for the next four or five hours, it was one explosion after another. We’d put them under tin cans. We put them on top of tin cans. We’d stick them inside tin cans. We’d light off Roman Candles and we didn’t have a care in the world where they landed.
This was great fun. All the parents gathered on their front steps and it was just a wonderful party.
All except for one year, when the lady up the hill from us had a toddler who just had to have his sleep. July 3 or no July 3, this kid was on a schedule, and all our noise was throwing him off.
“My Georgie is trying to sleep!” the woman kept screaming, and not so nicely either.
The more she complained, the noisier we got. I suppose it’s the ignorance of youth, but the more it bothered her, the funnier it was to us.
Cut to 2019. My yard backs up to a park, and that park is the center of all neighborhood activity on both July 3 and July 4. Just when you think it’s finally ending, another fusilade goes off. The noise begets more noise. And I cannot say a word. I swear, the minute the “get off my lawn” me even thinks of complaining to the local constabulary, there’s Georgie on my mind, laughing his fool head off.
Call it Georgie’s revenge.
My other most vivid July 4 memory involved one of the first Boston Pops Esplanade concerts. It might have even been the first. My wife, Linda, was still my fiancée. We went in with a group of friends, and got a spot toward the front, but to the river side of the park — closer to where the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company was guarding the cannons to be used for the bombastic “1812 Overture.” To get such a choice spot, we had to get there around 9 a.m., and it had to have taken a day-and-a-half for the show to begin.
None of us were there to hear classical music. We sang the patriotic songs, and all that other stuff. But we were only there for the cannons. And When they finally started being shot off, the force of the air coming out of them brushed our clothes as it traveled and we could feel the “whoosh.” Every “boom” from a cannon ruffled my shirt as the air traveled.
What a feeling!
And if that wasn’t awe-inspiring enough, once the din died down, and we made our way over the footbridge that crossed Storrow Drive, we heard every church bell that had been employed as part of the extravaganza still pealing. What a wonderous sound.
I really hope that somewhere between now and Thursday, something makes your July 4 celebration memorable. Maybe you’ll have a great family reunion cookout, or perhaps you’ll meet the person of your dreams down the beach. Maybe the Red Sox will even win!
Maybe you’ll be fortunate enough to score a spot on the Esplanade and see for yourself why this event has become one of the nation’s premiere July 4 civic celebrations.
And maybe, for a day, anyway, we’ll understand that even though there’s much that agitates us, and will agitate us going forward, simple things such as the joys of Americana are what unite us.
Happy Fourth.
