Ballet of the Fire Dancers

Sticky pancakes on paper plates in the park, we simmered in the morning sunshine with J&K and their progeny. This is our annual outing. This is the way that Independence Day gets underway.

Tacky hats and municipal minstrels, the long line feeds itself into the white sea of butcher-paper-covered picnic tables, garnished in turn with a congregation of red, white, and blue blazoned gentry. The aging and dwindling Lyons Club line-marshals and breakfast chefs herd the masses into the cordoned coral. Beverages are all-you-can drink.

Welcome to Suburbia. Welcome to America.

Carbo-loaded and laden with link sausage, the middle of the day called for work. So, I spread Shredded Cedar in the planter beds in front of the house. The labor was light, but I faced it as a festive celebration of my property rights. Burdened as it is by ordinance and regulation, this small patch of dirt is mine, and I am it's steward.

At 4:00, with the Monkey's ubiquitous pigtails in place, the Gin-and-Tonic family sailed swiftly southward toward Salem. Carl's meat, and Ryan's parade were waiting. As I passed the Woodburn outlet mall, I realized that it had been far too long since my last visit.

Things had changed since my last cruise through the capital city. I felt a bit like the prodigal son. All apprehension vanished though, as I pulled up and found all of my old friends right where I had left them.

The parade was first. Children on bikes, babies in strollers, my wife rode on a float. This was an ad hoc neighborhood venture, Ryan's own creation. He was the instigator and the grand marshal. Ryan led the way, patriotic fight songs from the boombox in one hand, bobbing broom baton in the other. He led, we followed. Others joined along the way. Younger neighbors came out of their houses to march with the masses. Older neighbors came out to gaze in wonder.

Am I kidding? No. Was it hokey? Absolutely. Would I do it again? In a heart beat.

This sort of spectacle just doesn't happen anymore. Neighbors don't talk to each other, let alone march around the block waving flags and following a broom-waving maniac. I give Ryan credit for this. He is a sort of Savant. A single minded festive fanatic savant, but a genius to be sure. Ryan leads. The neighbors follow.

Then the food. There was your typical spread of salad selections. Some were good. some weren't. There were no less than five varieties of potato salad. I tried all of them. However, the great unifying theme was meat.

I observed an obnoxious orgy of carnivorous gluttony. Beyond the bevy of burgers and dogs, there was chicken; fried chicken, bar-b-qued chicken, chicken pieces and chicken bits. But the the chick was a mere warm up for the real meat. Carl's Meat. Brisket and ribs. Smoked for something like 72 hours, or some such. The Brisket was awash with it own juice and literally melted on the tongue. I kept picking. Picking. Picking...

The evening dipped to dusk, and the anticipation became palpable. White bags bursting with explosive trinkets and baubles began to emerge from their secreted storage. Bag after bag. Box after box. A growing mound emerged, most of which was not nearly legal to even possess in this state. The sun was not down, but was barely blocked by the peak of the roof across the street.

Dark enough, it was time to the match fire to fuses. Soo many fuses... We worked in teams, toting stockpiles of crackling flashing boom-makers to the street. One visitor from Japan, who had never witnessed the thunder-lust of Americans on this day was disturbed, visibly. Her safety was warranted by her host, but in her mind it was not much of a leap for the fire crew to reenact Hiroshima.

There was a point, just after dark, when the combustible cacophony reached a war-like pitch. A never-ending array of mortar shells made their way from the garage with assembly-line efficiency. Launch tubes were lined down the street and the deep chest-pounding Fump-Boom cycles overlapped and repeated. I was lost in the smoky swirl of discharge and fire, clouded by constant concussive shock waves of light and sound. I was in the center of the fire zone, but also far from it. It was a perfect moment. I was one with the spirit of the holiday.

Then it was over. There were shells left to launch, but something in the air said we were done. All that was left was the fire dance. Swirling sticks of flame and spark, we danced over a spouting fountain. I spun in to the wind, and sparks singed my eyebrow.

And then it was dark.

Reading for comprehension
1. Do you know a good way to get the smell of gun powder out of your hair?
2. Seriously, do you even now your neighbor's names?
3. If more of the world could witness our July 4 celebrations, do you think Iran and South Korea would keep fucking around with us so much?