Fifth of July

I pick the girls up from D. It is the fifth of July.

He is making bread in his kitchen. I use his bathroom, then sit at his counter. We talk about the week, about his Shakespeare rehearsals, about summer camp, as the girls collect their things. I tell him about the Fourth of July party I went to last night, the fireworks gone wild.

As the girls and I are leaving, I add, Don’t get naked. The city of Boston is watching. I tell him about the brouhaha. I tell him one comment made me throw up.

D tells me not to let it get me down, that the Boston Globe is probably thrilled to have a little controversy. He tells me the commenters are nuts, not to take them seriously, that we are fine.

We are not fine together, but I know what he means. As parents, we are still fine. We are still there for each other, when push comes to Boston Globe.

It’s a small moment. But I am grateful for it. I say a quick prayer. I hope for better days. Different days, for sure. But maybe one day it will be easier.

*****

I have some difficult decisions to make, decisions that consume me. I can’t shake them off my shoulders, no matter how hard I try.

So last night, I gave up on decision-making. I went to an old-fashioned, rowdy, country Fourth of July party in Ballston Spa, New York, complete with burgers, hot dogs, real dogs, kids, trampoline, bonfire, beer, secret ganja and a terrific band.

I went along as a roadie, knowing only the guitarist and the other band members. I floated from area to area, hiding under my new straw cowgirl hat, taking in the faces passing by. These faces were real ones, not like the ones I tend to *see* at night.

I played with other people’s kids. I realized I felt invisible and perfectly at home at the same time. It was a peculiar sensation. Every stranger felt familiar—’like family.’

As twilight fell and the nearly full moon began taking the stage, the dusk turned this New York state country road into an Iowa landscape—the only thing missing was the smell of pig manure. A silo, farmhouse roofs, scrubby trees, all in shadow. The sky was beautiful, and not eager to let go of its light.

“Billy” was in charge of the fireworks, which finally commenced at 9:20. I wasn’t expecting much. So I was knocked out by the half-hour display, bigger and brasher than some of the ones I’d seen in Philadelphia as a child. Each onslaught of fireworks was a bizarre luxury, I thought. How strange, that we welcome explosions here on this day, trusting in our safety and freedom.

With each wave of fireworks, I jumped and crackled. Firework-watching is not the best pastime for one with bipolar who’s battling a mixed state of agitation and anxiety. But I couldn’t look away. There is magic in gold dust raining from the sky. I was riveted to my small white rock in a field of mulch between rows of parked cars.

I held my hat over my ears while E. stood guard. I realized that my lips were moving slightly, with each gorgeous explosion. Each explosion became a prayer, to do better, to do right by someone I love. Each explosion—I found myself giving it a name, a blessing. Wil. Jackie. Scott. Karina. Heather. Linds. Etienne. The nearby gal pals. Shelly. Clemmy. Katharine. Karmen. Topo. Tree. Mom. Joe. Katieface. Dad. Davide. The girls. My nieces. My nephew. The readers I love. The commenters who break my heart. The military. The unseen in this country. The unseen in every country. There was no shortage of names or prayers, or fireworks, it seemed.

All the while, a patriotic soundtrack blared from the garage. My heart pounded. Too much noise, too much, too much. I held onto my rock.

“Billy” lived to tell, as did we all, but the fireworks went awry near the end of the production. Two rockets shot off into the woods, two into the parking lot—narrowly missing me and E.—and one hit the house, setting something or other on fire (quickly extinguished).

Prayers were cut short, then. No more fireworks. Drunken karaoke ensued, which was my cue to exit (my ensuing panic attack was another good reason, yeee-haw!).

On the way home I thought of the summer night air, the fireflies, the welcoming people I’d met. I thought of this country of ours, the one we are so quick to dismiss as uncouth, as graceless as a big dog. We wag our tail and it makes a grand mess much of the time, overturning coffee table after coffee table. This is true enough.

But we all must be somewhere, and a white rock in a field of mulch just off a country road in the U.S.A. is not a bad place to be for a half an hour. Not a bad place at all for prayer, as the angels throw glitter from the heavens and each gorgeous explosion speaks for the wishes we cannot say out loud.