The 4th of July is this week. For those of you outside of America, it’s one of the big six holidays here, meaning the trash collection is delayed a day because even the trash collectors get to take July 4th as a holiday.
The big six are New Year’s, Memorial Day, July 4th, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. If any of these fall on or before your normal trash pickup, you have to wait a day before setting out your garbage cans.
It’s really a good thing if you’ve thrown a party because all the stinky leftover food will be gone from your premises, taken to garbage heaven, where it spends eternity rotting beside the plastic (which, of course, will remain intact forever).
The best part of the major holidays is that they have almost nothing to do with the original intent of their creation. They’ve been co-opted by capitalism, and you have to strain a bit to remember why the trash isn’t being picked up like usual.
Christmas is arguably the most distorted, falling so close to the winter solstice that it’s pretty obvious the birth of Christ was jammed onto that day by early Christians to win over the pagans who were overeating and getting drunk just to kill time during the darkest part of the year.
I suppose it’s plausible that Jesus was born late in December. It means that the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary had “sex” in late March. Palestine was mostly pastoral back then so late March is as good a time as any to make a baby. Joseph would have been getting his sheep out to pasture, so the opportunity was there.
Choosing the winter solstice to celebrate Jesus’s birth is as good as any time of the year, but I’m sure those early Christians had no idea it would become the shopping extravaganza we have today. Or Hallmark Christmas movies. They definitely didn’t see those coming.
Memorial Day is still pretty close to the original intent—honoring those who died while serving in the armed forces (sorry, Merchant Marines)—but is often confused with Veterans Day—honoring those who served in the armed forces (sorry again, Merchant Marines). But, really, it’s celebrated as the beginning of summer.
Once the obligatory parades are over, there are picnics, boats are dragged out of backyards and taken to the lake, and we look ahead to warm weather and cold drinks.
The flip side of that is Labor Day—honoring the achievements of American workers—which is basically the end-of-summer party because it’s pretty much the start of:
- School
- Football
- Halloween decorations
- Apple Cider/Pumpkin Spice season
- Xmas shopping
Thanksgiving clings to its original intent of, well, giving thanks, but it’s mostly used to carb-load for watching football and Black Friday shopping.
Of course, Thanksgiving is supposed to be the moment when you’re allowed to put out Christmas decorations, but if my subdivision is a barometer for the nation, the weekend after Halloween is when the 20’ tall Peanuts and Star Wars inflatables—all of them in Xmas costumes—hit the lawn.
July 4th is our celebration of the signing of Declaration of Independence. Thanks to the Star Spangled Banner (hello “rockets’ red glare”) it’s now mostly about fireworks and bunting.
I fear it’s become a litmus test for “patriotism,” with folks trying to outdo each other with flags on their cars, flags on their clothing, and flashes of anger for those who don’t seem to display enough red, white and blue. It’s all the more ironic under the current administration.
I used to love fireworks, and had a healthy, youthful obsession with acquiring firecrackers and bottle rockets. It all changed for me back in 1995 when we went to Chicago for the fireworks show.
We had family who lived in Chicago (hi Lisa!) and so we visited and went to Lake Shore Park, along with about a million other people, for the fireworks on July 4th. The weather was perfect, and we settled in with extended family on the lawn with drinks and snacks.
What could go wrong?
We had a ten-month old baby boy at the time and, unable to find a better option, dragged him along with us. He liked parties at the time so we thought it’d be fine.
The opening salvos of the fireworks are like the hors d’oeuvres at a party, meant to stimulate the appetite. But our baby was unsettled. It was loud, it scared the bejesus out of him, and he started to cry.
I decided to take him back to the hotel. Thank goodness we had the foresight to take a room downtown, so I only had about ten blocks to go. I set off with the stroller and a screaming baby as fireworks detonated over the lake.
Now it was my time to get scared because coming at us was about a million more people hurrying to see the fireworks. The crowds filled both sidewalks and the street, cutting off traffic, as they rumbled toward me.
I was like Mufasa trying to keep Simba safe as they faced the stampeding wildebeests.
Somehow, I navigated the crowd and made it to the hotel. Safely ensconced on the tenth floor, the baby promptly fell asleep and I watched the fireworks on television. With plenty of beer at hand, plus a bathroom, I had a fine time.
Given the size of the crowd, I didn’t expect my wife and family to arrive for quite a while. It was my turn to promptly fall asleep.
What I’d forgotten was that I had the room keys with me, and that my wife might not have paid attention to what room we were in, and that our room was the rally point for the whole extended-family outing. There were no less than four sets of car keys in our room. They made it to our hotel some time after midnight (huge crowds move slowly) but, in the time before cell phones, they had trouble reaching me.
I slept through the phone calls. My wife’s purse was in the stroller so she had no ID to prove who she was, and had trouble convincing the staff to issue another key. Obviously, they made it back and things turned out well enough for my wife and I to have another baby.
I appreciate the spectacle of fireworks, but now I hate the sound because it tortures my dog. What’s worse is the build up—probably starting tonight—of amateur fireworks in the neighborhood. They’re professional grade, and pack a wallop.
Starting about ten o’clock tonight, I expect about two hours of concussive blasts so close to our house I can smell the powder. The next four nights will be the same.
I hope drones will fully replace fireworks, but it may not be in my lifetime.
Despite the darkness and cold, I’ll take New Year’s Day over any of ‘em in a flash. That holiday is exactly what it says in the name: a celebration of the new year. It’s a chance to tell the past year to piss off, and full of hope for better, brighter days. We gather with friends and family, or not, and get drunk, or get high, or stay sober, and then go to bed.
There’s no wrong way to celebrate the new year. You turn the page on your calendar (so to speak) and get on with it.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk
For those of you in mid-Michigan, I’m presenting workshops on creativity, drawing on 40 years of writing, filmmaking, and dirty limericks. Hosted by A Novel Concept in downtown Lansing, in July, attendance is limited so jump on this fun chance to improve your creative practices, regardless of your skill level.
Visit A Novel Concept for more info: www.anovelconcept517.com/events.
You May Like…
This week, I’m sharing a new release by an author I admire, Amy Vansant:
Family reunions turn deadly in this Shee McQueen special event by USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and Amazon All-Star bestselling author Amy Vansant.
https://www.amazon.com/Shee-McQueen-Bloodlines-Mystery-Thriller/dp/B0FFB2GH6W/ .
Next Picayune
I hope you take a moment to appreciate July 4th, which commemorates our founding fathers refusing authoritarian rule, and beginning a great experiment in democracy. I hope we can collectively find the courage to stand up for those who need our help.
Thanks for reading my picayune!
All the best,
Mickey
P.S. Order my book!