The first thing we always do is head for the craft fair.  It’s an uneven experience – some years very good, most – a little disappointing.  The organizers don’t really “get” how to work with real artists, so they charge too much for booths and end up with people who are actually thinly disguised retailers of “hand made” imported goods.  But there are a few  beloved people who show up there every year.  And this is Ed Hamm – a wonderful potter.  My house is full of his stuff.  And lately, I’ve been gathering his cereal bowls – beautiful things.  This is the one I bought this year.

He loves to use matt glazes, and his work really reflects the world we see out of our own windows.  His leaf relief pieces are just gorgeous.

Yes, we live in the desert.  And I adore this series –

Chaz and Chelse hunting through the tie-die booth.  This guy’s colors just glowed.

We used to wake up early and trek off to the parade route with our strollers and bags of child food and paraphernalia.  Our parade is no small thing.  It travels about nine blocks west along the main street, then turns east toward the mountains and goes another nine.  The streets are full of people all night, staking curb claims, dancing in the streets.  Nobody gets to park on the streets that night.

When I was in graduate school, I lived in the second story apartment of a gorgeous ancient house on Center.  That summer, we watched the parade from its small balcony and cursed the strangers who’d put down their blankets and tarps and chairs all over our front lawn.  Later, my friend Ginger bought that house.  She put out her own blankets and chairs and set her children as guards over the curb all night long.  And she let us trundle in just before parade time with the babies to share the curb with her.

The shot above was taken when we found Jen – who had been a councilor at our high school as my kids went through their time there.  She was amazing – intelligent, fun, flexible – way more concerned about the good of the child than about  – how do I say this?  She saw the policies as being in place to serve the individual – rather than forcing the individual to fit the policies.  Then she married a widower with five kids.  A remarkable, loving, wonderful, incredible friend to my kids.  And so she has my undying love.  Along with the undying love of just about everybody in the community.

Eighteen blocks of crowds just like this.  See the horses?  I take pictures of horses. It’s a compulsion.

Chaz thought this was a weird shot, so I put it in.  Old cars behind her in the street.  All these red, white and blue shirts. Please note that Chaz has renewed her red specifically for this celebration.

Banjo players.  Fiddlers.

Dancing tractors.  They kept disengaging their hindquarters and swinging around the forehand.  My tractor does not look like this.  In fact, my tractor is not starting these days.  If it ever does again, maybe I’ll try to teach it to dance.

They got older as they went by.

A polynesian marching band.   Cool shirts.

More horses.

This is the house I used to live in.  I really loved it.

Our living room window, and the VERY BALCONY upon which we sat, ate homemade meatloaf and watched the parade.  Isn’t the ivy wonderful?

Pipers.

The street is lined with these ancient sycamores.  They were old when I lived there, thirty five years ago.

Ummm.  Horses.

Ummmmmmm – FRESIANS.  There are actually two horses there.  Are all Fresians studs?

Then back home to prepare for the Big Party.  These shots are of the cherry tree we planted thirty years ago.  Thirty years without ONE SINGLE CHERRY.  But this year – was it the constant rain?  Have all the birds gone color blind?  WE HAVE 23 cherries.

A long time coming, eh?

And volunteer mulberries, springing up all over the place.  Where did they come from, these trees?

So, with that Pollyanna bazaar in my heart, I wanted my kids to experience the same kind of thing.  I started our own tradition: a small neighborhood 4th celebration – and we had sack races, and relays – water games – skill games – everything.  In its heyday, when all our families were young, we had over fifty people running around the yard.

We started by giving each kid a gallon zip lock bag with his or her name written in strong permanent marker.  Then, as the day went on, they collected as many tiny tootsie rolls as they could: find the tiny flags in the yard was the first competition – one roll for each flag.  One for each bottle you knocked down with the ball, or each clothes pin that made it into the jar.

Grown-ups had to play in the relays and races.  I wanted the kids to see their parents playing, too – stuffing their mouths with marshmallows and trying to whistle – catching raw eggs, running three legged races with short partners – it was great.  Winning teams got tootsie roll awards.

We had “fishing” off the back deck (easy to do when the river isn’t high like this) – up came bracelets and charms and small toys.  And we had tests – HOW MANY STATES CAN YOU NAME?????  One roll for each state.

And at the end of the day, we counted out the tootsie rolls in each bag and out came the prizes.  I spent a good deal of time over those prizes, collecting them all year – magical little junk—tiny battery powered fans, little horses, parachute men, all kinds of stuff.  The kids lined up according to number of tootsie rolls then each took her turn lingering over the prize tray.  Everybody got a cool prize.

These days, it’s just a couple of families.  Our children are all growing up.  We still do the tootsie rolls and the tiny flags – but on a much tinier scale.

A prayer of thanks.  I had my eyes closed when I took this.  Honest.

The little boys are HUGE now.

G, master of the grill.

Scared Toby with Rachel’s Mr. B.  They bonded when B came and repaired our sprinklers.  Grown up and then some.  Toby has a right to worry; when the big boys are on the OTHER side of the fence, he says very rude things to them.

This year’s test: repeat the Preamble to the Constitution by memory, word for word.  And you have to keep trying till you get it.  Do it right, and you are immediately crowned with a patriotic lei.

Mr. B – striking a patriotic pose. He only had to try twice.  Or was it three times?

M.  pretending that he’s trying to “remember.”  Like he’d ever tried to memorize the thing in the first place.  Indulgent mothers, prompting.

Then the face painting began.  Three resident artists and a lot of acrylic paint in the craft room – face painting was the inevitable conclusion.

Chelsey and the now-not-so-scared Toby.  Steal a couple of hot dogs, and you tend to feel VERY brave.

When K smiled, her dragon got very pleasingly scaly.

Like, Watootsie war paint.

K, very carefully marking her father with her own totem (she’s a horse woman).

The giant boys were skeptical at first.

Beautiful Chaz.

Painters painting each other.

The giant boys got over their skepticism pretty quick.

Of course, Rachel goes for the ankle.

And C. sits in the corner, quietly painting himself.

Love boids.

Yes, M – I DID take a picture of yours.

Scooter knows exactly what he wants.  Two stars.  One on each cheek.  Both red.  He holds very still.

It was a great afternoon – cloudy enough to cut the heat.  In the background, kids swinging on the rope.

Andy, eating cake.

Toby, helping her.

The Hakka.  (Sp????)

Star spangled Rachel.

And last, me.  I didn’t win the lei.  I just snuck one.

So many of my favorite things – friends, food, the yard, prizes – too big a day to make much of a story.  I have to admit I prayed for rain that evening – we’d been kept awake till the wee hours by fireworks for three nights running.  And danged if we didn’t get rain.  Right after we finished our own.  Doesn’t get any better than that. ;oP