Off The Top Celebratin's Great No Matter Where It is

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The weirdest Fourth of July I ever spent was in California, a statement that sort of speaks for itself. The first Fourth we spent in that gloriously golden but definitely wacky state was in the northern part of the state in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains. My new husband’s uncle and his wife lived in a place called Oroville, which if you’ve studied Spanish you can quickly figure out took its name from the gold rush era. We had timed our combination honeymoon/moving to San Diego trip to put us at their place over the holiday. It’s beautiful country, and I enjoyed it, but by that time I was ready to get where we were going. The second one was spent at a place called Mission Gorge (nearly everything in San Diego is named mission something) with other couples from the Naval base to which my husband was attached.

On our third and last one there my mother had come out to await the birth of my first child. She had been there much longer than she planned, as the birth was predicted to be early rather than late. My husband had to fly to Louisiana during June to take the state boards, and there was no way I could stay out there alone in that condition. So Mom came early and stayed late, valiantly sleeping night after night on the lumpy living room sofa. (It was only after my own kids were grown that I really came to appreciate many of the sacrifices she made.)

Whatever we did during the day of that last Fourth on Ocean Front Street has faded into the mists of memory, but I do recall that evening. We sat out on the cliffs bordering the Pacific just past our front (or back – I never could figure it out) yard and watched the fireworks over Mission Beach. We nearly froze. Finally, we dragged blankets from the beds, wrapped ourselves in them, and after the show went inside and made hot chocolate as if it were Christmas in Mississippi.

Two days later our son made his long-anticipated appearance on the day before my husband was to be released from the Navy. It was a good thing he decided to do so, as the Navy was footing the medical bill, and we couldn’t have afforded to pay for him otherwise.

There have, of course, been many Fourths since then. Some were memorable, others just routine days. I once started the strictest diet of my always-dieting life on the Fourth of July. I judiciously turned down my sister’s invitation to partake of her husband’s wonderfully cooked ribs and her potato salad, two of my favorites, to dine on salad and not much else. The diet worked; some months later I was thin once more, but then I got fat again, so what the hay! I should have had the ribs instead of sitting at home by myself.

Our Fourth celebrations when I was a child were fairly consistent. Daddy mowed the yard; we raked the grass and Mama worked in her flowerbeds. Later in the afternoon, we would generally go to the swim hole at Lexie to swim. Ironically, Magee’s Creek ran just west of our house, but the creek made a big bend just south of Lexie near the old one-lane bridge with no railings, and there was a wonderful shaded sandbar – a great place for picnics. Once, I remember, my cousin Genevieve nearly got swept away, and my Uncle John had to jump in and save her. There was so much trash washed up under the bridge she probably wouldn’t have gotten far. But it added a bit of drama to the day.

After we finished our swim, we would go home to the watermelon Daddy had cooled in the artesian well all day, and we would nearly always crank a freezer of ice cream.

I’ve written about some of the other Fourths I remember from my childhood, particularly the one where my father’s overall straps broke. I won’t bore you with that story again – at least not this year – but it is perhaps my most unforgettable one and will always hold a special place in my memory, not only because it was funny but because it was just plain fun.

That says something, I think. The most memorable times, the ones we store away and pull out from time to time just to look at again, the ones we warm ourselves by when the days are harsh and cold, seem to be those where we are surrounded by the folks we love.