I can't recall most of my summers growing up, at least not in great detail. They typically meld together in one collective memory of meandering for hours outside, secretly following my big brothers as they went exploring in places they should not (ie: alligator infested swamps), climbing orange and loquat trees to illegally forage for fruit in the hot humid fields of South Florida, and reading endless piles of books (usually from the Bookmobile- a gem of country life.) I recall even less well how we spent our Fourth of July's except to say they probably involved food, maybe a family gathering when I was very young, and often a bizarre form of entertainment known in the Mormon community as “Road Shows”- dramatized performances with costumes and songs and an added touch of their particular brand of religious indoctrination mixed with intense patriotism. (More on the eccentricities of LDS culture later.) But I do remember one Fourth of July in particular because I got sick and missed the festivities. That was unfortunate but not special in any regard. What was unique about it was that my mom wasn't the one who stayed home with me while the other 5 kids went out. It was my dad.
It was the summer between 4th and 5th grade. When I was not reading books, especially Little House on the Prarie, I was out at my best friend's house subversively learning to shave my legs while singing along to Janet Jackson and Paula Abdul (it was the beginning of the 90's.) My best friend at the time was Becky DeLorey and she had a slew of older brothers like me except she had more of them and they were more trouble than mine (I think my eldest brothers *may* have gotten involved in some car jacking and other nonsense with the DeLorey boys.) Becky also had an older sister, Virginia (they were all from Boston- “Baww-ston”.) Virginia was my brother Mike's girlfriend.
Anyway, I was at Becky's house shaving my legs in secret because I wasn't really allowed to yet even though I was almost 11 and practically grown. Her brothers were drinking beer and playing pool in the living room and they were watching Pet Cemetery, which scared the crap outta me (everything at my house was G-rated.)
“You goin’ to the fireworks tomorrow?” Becky asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” I said.
“Well, I'm gonna be here with these losers so if you're around, come by to light off firecrackers with me,”
She said, smacking her lips while chewing a wad of Bubble Tape Bubble Gum.
“Oh, and here, have some snakes,” she handed me a small box of “snakes”.
“You light ‘em on fire and watch them grow like crazy. They're wicked smart,” she enthused.
“Cool,” I replied.
We listened to some New Kids On The Block and debated who was the hottest (uh, Donnie!!! Hello!!) Then I thanked her and said my goodbyes because it was time for dinner. I knew this because I could hear my mom doing a roll-call of my and my brothers’ and sister's names from across the street- “Maaarrk, Miiii-chael, Annn-gie, Maaaattt,Jaaannaaa, Steeeevieee” and so on. I hopped on my over-sized ten-speed and started heading home to our apartment, cutting through the golf course (the best place to ride bikes), my now-smooth legs contributing to peak aerodynamics. Ah, to be young again.
The next day was the Fourth of July. Mom put on a VHS of George M. Cohan's “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” Broadway was a staple in our house. And then my Pops gave us a huge surprise- we were getting KFC!
I will take a brief moment to say that our family was not used to such luxuries. Publix Deli chicken would have been a delicacy (my grandparents would sometimes treat us to Pub Deli food for family reunions.) But we never went to KFC, which is kinda funny now that I think of it because Pops was from Kentucky, just like the Colonel.
So on this day of days, to celebrate the birth of our nation, my brothers and I were to be treated to the crispy, finger-lickin’ deliciousness that was KFC. Also, there would be “smashed potatoes” and there was nothing I liked more than “smashed potatoes.”
Unfortunately, it was not meant to be. Oh, my parents brought home the KFC, but much to my dismay, I began to get a migraine headache (bane of my existence), which led to me feeling sick to my stomach. I was in bed when they came home with the bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, but as soon as I caught I whiff, I hurled. Migraines make me extremely nauseated.
And so, while my five siblings devoured their tasty morsels of golden goodness, I laid in bed in agony. What's worse, I heard them talking about going to fireworks. “I'm going to miss food and fireworks!!!???” I thought. What a terrible trick of fate.
Then, unexpectedly, my dad volunteered to stay home with me. It was strange for him to do this because A) he doesn't like being around sick kids/people and B) he rarely ever “watched the kids” (my parents are Boomers, dont judge.) However, my mom was quick to get on board with the plan so she could get out of the house with the other children and enjoy the festivities.
And so it happened that my Pops stayed home with me on the Fourth of July. We watched a movie, likely “Star Trek” (I think it was the “Search for Spock”.) I sat on the floor next to the couch, clutching our giant yellow mixing bowl that doubled as a barf bowl. He patted me on the back softly every time I yacked and said the thing he would always say to comfort me, “Poor little girl”.
After a couple of hours passed, I began to feel better. I was forlorn at having missed the main attraction of the evening, but then I remembered that Becky had given me snakes! I grabbed them off my bedroom dresser and asked my dad for a lighter. He obliged and we ventured out to the front porch of our small Tampa, Fl, apartment, father and daughter together, just the two of us, and watched the smokey, strange unfurling of our Fourth of July snakes.