Independence Day had always been important. At breakfast, either my mom or my dad would recite the poem, “Hat’s Off! The Flag is Passing By”. This 4th was no different, except we were later than usual eating breakfast. We were celebrating our freedom as Americans. Getting up late was a rare privilege.
Dad went out to do the morning chores, while Mom and I cleared up the breakfast dishes. Next, we mixed and baked cinnamon rolls and a pie. On this particular year, we had been invited to the neighborhood get together for homemade ice cream, pies, soda pop in cans, and the fireworks. A few days before, my dad and I had bought Roman candles, sparklers and snakes from a local fireworks stand. It was going to be exciting and fun and I couldn’t wait.
I wandered outside and played with Sarge the English bulldog for a while. I tried to get him to put his paw on his chest when I repeated “The Pledge of Allegiance”. In my mind, he resembled Sir Winston Churchill. In his mind, I probably resembled a pesky fly, buzzing around and interrupting his nap. Sarge rolled his eyes and yawned.
I heard Dad’s boots coming up the sidewalk. The sun was edging higher in the sky.
“Gary, will you go pick up a gallon of milk, please?” Mom called from the kitchen, through the south screen door. “There’s still time to go before dinner is ready.”
I jumped up, hoping to be invited along to get the milk.
“Sure!” Dad smiled at me. “So what are you planning to do? I suppose you want to ride along!”
I knew he was happy for my company, and I was happy for his.
Sarge rolled over and heaved a sigh of relief as my dad and I walked down the sidewalk. Dad carried the empty gallon glass jar and I held onto his other hand.
The early July air smelled like summer. The birds were singing on the breeze as we drove up the dusty gravel road east, then turned south. I could see a bunch of kids at the farm. The black and white Holstein cows and some of their calves were out to pasture. The kids standing around in the grass were ready for an adventure! Anything with them was always so much fun. I was glad to see what they were doing.
We turned into the lane and drove to the milk barn. Dad and I climbed out of the pickup and walked to the barn. A Frigidaire ice box was just inside the door. That’s where the neighbors could buy their weekly milk. There was a green plastic measuring cup in there to put the coins for the milk. Dad exchanged the empty gallon jar for a filled one. Beads of sweat broke out on the sides of the jar of creamy milk. Dad set it carefully on an old towel spread on the ripped pickup seat.
The kids came running over to say hi to me. It was the greatest feeling in the world to be wanted.
“We’re going on a picnic! Come with us!” The big boys had bamboo fishing poles and a bucket of minnows for bait. Pausha the black dog jumped and barked at all the excitement. Panting, his pink tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth. The back green screen door banged as we made our way up the hill. Barbara, the dairy farm kids’ mom was balancing glass plates, colorful tin glasses, silverware and bowls and boxes and a bushel basket of picnic food. Delicious smells of fresh rolls, roast beef, roasting ears and mashed potatoes and gravy floated to our noses. I saw Hostess chocolate cupcakes, Snowballs and Twinkies in a grocery bag. Barbara hurried back into the house to fetch sweet clover butter, salt and pepper for the roasting ears and the rolls. The basket in the red wagon was being stacked with food. Kathy was holding the halter of Tony, the Shetland pony already beside the house, replete with real saddle bags. The other girls knew how to pack the food into the saddle bags, and were busily stuffing items into the leather pouches. Icy lemonade in several quart jars, were set inside 2 tin buckets so they wouldn’t tip over and spill out their sour sweetness. I was charmed at the spectacle. More than anything, I wanted to go along on this adventure. I wanted it so much, I couldn’t speak. But Barbara knew what I was hoping, without me saying a word.
“Please let her go with the kids for the picnic”, Barbara asked Dad. “We have plenty of food for everybody. She will have a good time.” I waited, not breathing.
Dad looked at me standing there in my almost worn-out brown dress, 3 frayed bows rowed up the front, not any more dressed for a picnic than anything. My hair, crooked bangs and all, had been chopped off earlier because of a sad episode with lice. I was a shy, fat little girl anxious to eat food from saddle bags and walk in the tall weeds to the creek where the picnic would happen. All this before the 4th of July ice cream and fireworks when it grew dark! It was almost too much to hope for.
Dad said yes. He pushed his cap further back on his head and smiled, driving off towards home. He didn’t even remind me to be good.
I felt absolutely free. Free and grateful to be in this country at this time with these kids for the 4th of July picnic that would lead up to the fireworks and ice cream. I wondered if this was why people had named it Independence Day. For the first time in my life, I was fervently grateful to those soldiers who died so that we could have a 4th of July celebration for American independence. We were free to go on a picnic!
“Hey Carol!” “Come on!” The kids were laughing and calling me to join them. Kathy was carefully leading Tony towards the creek. Rick was riding Tony, but nobody was jealous of him. We all knew that the shoulder-high-to-a-nine-year-old brome grass was too much for a 4-year-old to walk through, all the way to the creek. The sun was directly overhead in the blue, blue Kansas sky. Alongside of us, kildeers were running, crying piteously, luring us away from their babies. Pink wild roses nodded in patches along the way. I needed to wake up to the joy of the moment and remember it.
“Carol ! Let’s go to the creek! Help us carry the buckets!”
Finally awake and with full attention, I grabbed the wire handle of one of the tin buckets holding the jars of lemonade, and trotted ahead to catch up with the group of friends on a perfect Independence Day.
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