Just Days

I don't remember many Independence Day celebrations, mostly because they weren't very memorable. A pleasant memory did happen in Galesburg, IL, watching fireworks from a paddle boat in the middle of Lake Storey. And that is really the extent of the memory. Pleasantly floating on a dark lake while sky flowers exploded above me, I forgot my pre-teen problems, even broken teeth and high water pants. I think someone paddled out there with me, but I don't remember who. I just really liked the contrast--dark quiet broken by cracks of colored light.

I think most 4th of Julys meant dad grilled bratwurst over charcoal while mom did the rest.  But that food memory really stands out when everyone but me lived in Gahanna, Ohio, because I was teaching high school about 100 miles to the North and West. On the 4th, I'd drive up in my Escort, probably carrying a G.D. Ritzy's garden salad to avoid the greasy brat. One summer I came back home and met old college friends in downtown Columbus to watch fireworks flash over the Scioto River. We sat and drank white wine spritzers made with Faygo Frosh and Gallo Chablis while we watched the display shot in time to the 1812 Overture.

Here in Charleston, IL, I remember one fun 4th of July before Mattoon and Charleston combined their fireworks shows out at the airport. It was the year my husband (now ex-husband) and I moved to Charleston, and I really thought we had a chance. It was a cicada year, and our house bordered a wooded ravine, so the hum of wings set the season's scene. As really the first house in Heritage Woods, just past the student apartments and the tiny playground, we easily walked to the campus pond where they lit off flaming peonies and a brocade of trailing stars.

Most of my Independence Days, though, are just days, with maybe a quick drive to the hospital across from the airport to see the sky fill with color quickly enough to get home before at least one dog jumps through a screen and runs away.