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In Wabash, Indiana, where I grew up, the fourth of July was always the middle mark of summer. As a student I knew that there was still as much summer to enjoy as I had relished over the past few weeks. So it was that the fourth was a much anticipated event.
A few days prior to the celebration my mother took us to the store so that we could help pick out our legal fireworks. We bought sparklers and cherry bombs, (I think those were legal) and snakes. Snakes were my favorite, they were just a small cylinder of black which when you lit the top it would grow and curl to resemble a writhing snake. One year when I was still fairly young, my mom handed each of us kids our own pack of matches so we could light our displays. Following my cool older friend I put the match between the cover and the strike pad to light it. In doing this I turned the match just as it lit and the whole pack went up in my hand. The rest of that holiday was spent sitting with the grownups holding ice to the massive blister that had formed on the entire palm of my hand.
Often our family would gather with some neighbors for the day. We would grill some hamburgers and Mom would make her amazing potato salad. Then it was time to turn the crank as we made our own ice cream. My mouth would drool in anticipation of the vanilla flavored delight that was so cold every bite caused an ice cream headache.
The town of Wabash put on a fireworks display in the park. We were lucky enough to be able to see the show from our back yard. Later, as trees matured my Dad let us climb to the roof to watch. We thought that was a grand adventure.
When Paul and I bought our house in Clifton Park, New York, our neighborhood was directly across from the town fields where the fireworks were set off. The neighborhood was “party central” for the town and like my parents we invited our friends for the day. Our girls spent their early childhood watching the fourth of July parade and the fireworks right in their own front yard.
Some of my best memories were fourths spent on the islands of Lake George. Months in advance we would rent our sites. On that day many of our friends, with kids in tow, would arrive early to spend the day boating, swimming and cooking over a campfire. It was our custom to have steaks cooked over an open flame and baked potatoes roasted in the coals. As evening approached we would all pile into our boats and head to the shoreline near the town of Bolton Landing. The fireworks here were set off from a barge anchored not far from land. On a clear night the red and blue lights of the hundreds of boats gathered was almost a show in itself. As the fireworks blossomed into their fiery displays over Lake George, they were mirrored in the cool clear water below. The exhibit was so spectacular that the many “oohs” and “ahhs” it warranted could be heard gliding over the surface of the lake as the booming concussions echoed against the Adirondack Mountains.
Last summer I spent the holiday at my sister’s new home on Lake Chatuge, located on the border of Georgia and North Carolina. Here, too, we were surrounded by mountains. This time The Blue Ridge Mountains. Since this was our first holiday on Lake Chatuge we did not know the routine. Rumor around the cove was that some of the neighbors put on quite a show. At dusk, after our fill of barbecue, we all gathered on the dock beverage in hand. We were not disappointed. We clapped our appreciation both during and after the show and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Lake Chatuge is once again calling. The attendance at this year’s festivities has grown considerably. This just means there are more great memories to be made.
My mother had a favorite brother, Otis. I knew him as Uncle Odie. He was an Indiana hog farmer. A darn good one I understand as breeders from China came to the United States just to buy the sperm from his hogs. Uncle Odie died several years ago. He left behind an incredible family and his wife, Mary.
Aunt Mary, as I remember her, was always quick to find something to laugh about. I didn’t realize until much later in life this was because she was a very positive woman. Growing up, I just recall enjoying going to her house or having her visit. She seemed to bring joy into a room with her presence.
Aunt Mary, as my mother once told me, was her example of what a good, loving wife should be, and that she aspired to attain the example Mary and Odie demonstrated of a good marriage. It was easy, as a young person, to observe the love that exuded from their family. As an adult, it was still obvious at my uncle’s funeral. My cousins placed hands of reassurance on their siblings and lavished each other with long comforting hugs. They doted on their mother. They all sat side by side and seemed to comfort each other with their nearness.
After Uncle Odie passed, I would on very rare occasions see or talk with Aunt Mary. It upset me to hear her sadness. She cried, even years after his death, about how much she missed him. I selfishly longed for my Aunt Mary’s humor and funny stories. So, it was with happiness that the last time we spoke, Aunt Mary seemed more her old self. We were playing catch up on our families and filling each other in on the details. I was enjoying hearing her familiar infectious laugh. I realized as Aunt Mary was talking, and she can go on for quite some time without stopping-she was giving out some great advice. I felt such a pang of recognition when she told me the following story:
There were twelve of us in the beginning. We knew everything about each other. We raised each other’s kids. We spent a lot of happy times together. Now there are only two of us left. My friend, she doesn’t travel much so I rarely see her. But, oh, we had some fun. Now there is no one left who knows me. My kids say we know you, but they only understand me as their parent. I have no one left who remembers, me.
Up until that point I had been listening but also cleaning junk off my desk. Now, suddenly I stopped. Aunt Mary had just described my situation with our very close friends. A relationship we find very unique and special but one, I’m sure many people have. I realized the valuable insight I had been given and I took this thought from that story.
Cherish my family friends and the times we have now, because we all know life does not remain the same. In some very short years, we also, will begin to lose loved ones from our wonderful odd assortment of comrades. All too soon only one of us will be left to tell our story.
Then, very quickly, as was typical of Aunt Mary’s train of thought, she changed the subject and went on to say her life was good. She didn’t do as much living anymore but she experienced life through her grandkids and great-grandkids. She has more than I can count. As I listened with amazement, Aunt Mary began to rattle off their names and the cities they lived in. She told me their professions and their spouse’s names and if they had any children. I was impressed but I remembered I had always enjoyed her stories because of the amazing detail she recalled about the events.
As Aunt Mary was winding down her conversation she threw in some last minute tidbits of great advice. “Odie has been gone ten years now and it’s awful. I still miss him constantly. Enjoy every moment, it goes by so fast and appreciate your husband every day.”
Some exceptional words of wisdom. Thanks, Aunt Mary.
Rosemary Christle-Renaud 