When I was a kid, I fell in love with Polyanna. The movie, I mean, not the character. I loved the prisms. And I loved most of all the 4th of July bazaar—the games and the flags and the corn on the cob and the prizes. And all the people. All the neighbors, celebrating together.
So at some point in our young lives, I decided to make a great 4th picnic in my own yard. I researched games, invented races—even chased down burlap bags for three legged ones—some involving buckets of water, some about spoons and eggs. All the guests—fathers, mothers, missionaries and kids—had to play. It was wild and wonderful. And there were games of skill (adults excused): tossing horseshoes, dropping clothes pins into bottles (my mom taught me that one), all kinds of things.
Each child was given a gallon ziplock bag with his or her name written on it, and into those bags went all the points won for each game, points embodied in tiny tootsie rolls. If the kid was wise and didn’t eat the points, he’d total them up at the end of all the games, and then line up with all the other kids in order of points. And then—ah, and then—out came the prizes, all crowded on to a big old green tray that once belonged to G’s mom. And one by one, each child came forward to choose.
Oh, and I forgot. The fish pond. I remember fish ponds from a PTA fair we went to at Kentwood School when I was in first grade, back in LA. Magical. Incredible. So we had one of those too – and we used a real rod (sometimes a stick – it just depended), and the “fish” hid under our river deck while his partner stood up on the deck and, VERY loudly remarking on the age and gender of the fisherman just approaching the rail. Then the fisherman had to call out, “Fish. FISH. Come UP!!!”
Down went the lure. And the breathless wait. A tug – a fish hooked – and then the fisherman reeled in a ring or a car or a parachute guy or a jumping frog or a bracelet – and everybody crowded around to see. All while the river rushed by, down below.
But our kids are all grown and gone now. Except Chaz, who is gone more than she is here, and who now is a planner, no longer a receiver of the magic. And all the kids of our friends who used to come, all mothers and fathers themselves now; perhaps, wherever they are, they remember our yard all these 4ths later. Remember those old times when half the ward ran wild in our shade, climbing the trees and watching their fathers and mothers run the races. And the prizes on the old green tray.
Still, I can’t let go of that idea – of a grand fourth, and of children flying around the yard. I’m really too tired anymore, so the picnic isn’t quite what it used to be. More of a barbeque now. Still with pot luck sides and pie and ice cream and cake but without the bunting and the crepe paper. Some year, I’ll just give it up and sleep through the heat of the afternoon.
This year, it was just mostly family: my brother, Mike and his wife, L and their three ancient boys, Rachel and her good man and her million kids (we share at least one son), and Kathy and Q and their one kid left these days (we also share a son with them), and Cam and L and Scoots. A little bitty celebration. Lots of burgers for everybody:
Burgers and hotdogs and chicken salad (Kathy) and broccoli salad (Lorena, along with beans), ambrosia (I made it up) and chips, twenty kinds of soda and Kathy’s great pies, and Rachel’s banana and fresh cherry cake all aside, the games begin. First: naming as many states as you can. Second: naming all the presidents you can. Third: special points for reciting the Preamble to the Constitution. Fathers are in charge of the lists.
A very serious father quizzes a very serious kid.
Two more very serious fathers, while one not-so-serious kid hangs from a tree.
Then, there’s my brother M, who counts as a father, but not as a serious one. Here, he cheats shamelessly, handing out hints like it’s Halloween. This native does not seem to mind.
My brother, the father, being plied by one of his Great Sons. This tradition is also known as “The Running of the Bull.”
A wood sprite goes into flight, the swinger’s muse.
A frog dodges the swinger’s fancy feet.
A GM hugs a GK.
A sylph plays were her new camera. Happy Birthday, Sylph.
This daughter is no longer up for bid. I have decided to keep her. Unless somebody comes up with at least twenty cows.
Making crowns. Wearing her own jewelry. Smiling her own smile.
Still cheating. And now L is helping him. Yes, this is the family I came from. But something has changed – what could it be? Ah! The child has become an American Princess!
Emmy is also an American Princess, and seems pretty pleased about it.
And then she runs away.
But she doesn’t run far. And this child belongs to:
These people. And believe it or not, she looks JUST LIKE HER MISSIONARY BROTHER.
Following: THE GREAT SCOOTER CHASE
Scooter is fierce. His horse picks him up, and they are off on the hunt. The fox is already flying away.
Swooping down on the fox. The fox is TERRIFIED.
Oh NO. The fox is doomed!
Main Non!!! The Fox TURNS! (Does he have worms?) RUN, SCOOTER!
Scooter’s fierce mount takes off – but the fox is hot on his tail.
RUN SCOOTER!!! Later, the fox will turn into Paul Revere, and will take a long ride himself as the Sylph reads the famous poem and the rest of the Natives render a tableau. In the climax, Scooter gets trampled, but lives to tell the tale.
Emmy and Skye decide to take it easy after all the amazing excitement.
Scooter finds safety.
Oddly, Emmy seems to be interrupting our program for the hawking of flying saucers.
And Mike is STILL CHEATING.
While this lovely ancient native smiles in her innocent frankness, Emmy seems to have been born for the runway –
Two lovely babies.
And at the end, after the Historical Tableau and the glorious eating and the 4th of July miniature flag hunt—after the pie and the cake and the ice cream and the PRIZES (Kirsten got the WHOLE PACKAGE OF MINI CERIAL BOXES and Matthew, who was way at the end of the line, got exactly what he wanted: the first aid kit. Colin picked a bunny in honor of his soon-to-be-a-mommy bunny, Levi absorbed the package of gold fish crackers, and the oldest, most dignified Native of all displayed his masculine confidence by choosing the pink Hello Kitty band-aides— just a few of the spectacular prizes won by the American Masses that day)—after all this, I say, the families slowed down, tidied up and wound their ways home.
After that, it was all over but the fabulous fireworks engineered by my oldest son—an ingenious and very high-tech pyrotechnical display meant to last fifteen minutes, accompanied by carefully edited and majestic music. It actually lasted about six minutes (the fuses set each other on fire), but it was one heck of a six minutes. Then Scooter went to bed, and so, finally did we.
And that is the end of this tale. A long day, and a good one. I’d wish the same to you all, but you’ll have to wait another year for that.
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