Party in the U.S.A.
Independence Day is especially big in our former neighborhood, which hosts a run, a ride, a party in the park, and a parade. We return every year, making the 4th as much a reunion as anything. It is surreal to see the kid from three doors down now showing off his pregnant wife and my daughter’s flower girls turning into teenagers. I show off my young grandsons too. Me, the former neighbor with egg-cracking calves that ran for hours every weekend, now unrecognizable with lighter hair and a lumpy midsection.
Everyone asks if I ran the shorter or longer race and, for the second year in a row, I explain I don’t run anymore. This explains a lot, I sense them thinking as they politely drift to the next person with a red cup. Next year, I’m doing the ride – the longer one -- I vow after the seventh sip of my mango mimosa.
The parade is pure Americana. Celebrities are all public officials – from the mayor to our state rep. We’ve had better known people included in the past, but since the pandemic it’s been non-famous locals only (one of which almost won some reality TV competition several years back, but I can’t remember the show’s name). Where is Zander Schauffele? Kyle Mooney? Dammit, that actor from TV and movies I once saw on a visit to his parents' place could at least make an appearance, I argue while waiting for a mimosa refill.
Each year they mix it up, sometimes leading with law enforcement and the fire department (still heroes here almost two decades later), sometimes a car club. The Pride people came back for a second year to jubilant cheers from our tiny section filled with lesbians. And everyone loves the Golden Retriever meetup group, though a couple of activists among us tried to cool them down with water from a random lawn hose, finding it cruel they had to walk a mile on hot asphalt.
Unless your kid's in the parade, everyone’s favorite is the Society for the Preservation of the Middle Class. They’ve been a mainstay of the parade since I first attended 20 years ago, maybe more. It’s a different group of men (always men!) doing lawnmower moves while holding a (presumably) empty can of domestic beer. It’s a joke, of course. No one around here mows their own lawns, and we’re a craft beer hub. This Bud’s not for you. We all cheer them on, even if some of us have ourselves fallen out of a middle class that now requires a minimum six-figure income for entry.
I must have cheered a little too loudly from the sidelines after knocking back the remainder of my third mimosa. One guy came clear across the road to kiss me on the cheek. It was so unexpected I wasn’t sure how to react but, being a good sport, I whooped it up.
“Miss Anne?” one of the flower girls asked, “Do you know that guy?”
“No,” I giggled, and saw their faces drop. “It’s OK, though. He thought he knew me,” I lied.
I wanted to explain that on the 4th of July, and a hot one at that, anything goes. That our forefathers would be proud of how we celebrate our freedoms (increasingly limited though they may be right now). That someone better take that bucket of water balloons away from my grandsons if they want any left to throw at the cheerleaders. And, not to worry girls, Miss Anne can handle being kissed by a handsome fool. Really, if anyone was being harassed, it was the tiny pony from the local riding club that some parade-goers decided to shoot with water guns. What is wrong with people?!
I wanted to explain all this, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. The hostess had just announced it was last call.
