My neighborhood takes July 4th pretty seriously.
This day will begin with a parade down 57th Street. In the parade will be kids on bikes that have been carefully adorned with red, white and blue streamers, crepe paper, and ribbons. (My favorite technique for jazzing up my bike when I was of parade participation age was to attach playing cards with clothespins to the spokes – made the coolest sound when I sped by.) Leading the parade will be a group of aging but enthusiastic brass musicians, decked out in patriotic colors, playing “You’re a Grand Ole Flag” and other July 4th favorites. There will be dogs in star-studded attire, some even wearing hats. Those in the neighborhood who own convertibles will also be in the parade, driving slowly, careful to dodge the tricycles, wheelchairs and lawn furniture.
At the end of the parade is a pile of popsicles. The kids instantly get orange and red stains around their mouths. The sticky stuff drips onto their toes, as the parents stand around and talk. The dogs try to shake off their hats.
Later there will be a homemade fireworks display on 58th Street. Those with high levels of testosterone in their systems will bring out paper bags full of artillery. Now, we have a lot of guys on the block, and regardless of their age, they love setting things on fire and blowing things up. So, we get quite a show. The girls dance around the edges of the display, twirling sparklers and occasionally lighting smoke bombs or snakes. The moms (along with the dads and sons with not so high levels of testosterone) gather on the lawn in the middle of the block. There are margaritas and green and white strapped lawn chairs.
Last night during dinner the block behind ours got a head start on the holiday. I wandered over there and made these pictures.
Even as I was trying to fall asleep around 11, I could still hear the blasts, followed by hoops and hollers and applause.
No comments:
Post a Comment