memories . . .

I was starting to reply to my friend Sue's comment, telling her I am a complete sucker for fireworks, parades, and family bbq's and got off track, lost in my own memories. When I was a kid growing up in the 50's, we used to have a Fourth of July parade every year. I'm not talking about the whole town, just the neighborhood. All the kids would dress in red/white and blue and weave r/w/b crepe paper through their bicycle wheels or clip playing cards to their spokes with an old clothes pin. It was a race to see whose bike made the loudest clacketety clack. There were little kids being pulled in little red wagons waving American Flags, old men in uniform, ladies bearing homemade cakes and pies. We would all march down Cedar Road to the lake, neighbors hanging out in lawn chairs in front of their homes to watch the festivities and cheer us on. Final destination . . the club house on the lake. Now, about this club house, don't be thinking fancy smancy, it had four wooden sides and a roof atop a cement floor . . . screened windows with wooden covers hooked back to the ceiling flanked one side and it sported one of those old creaky screen doors on a spring that closed with a resounding thwack! The work areas had been painted over so many times and blistered from the heat but those women would scrub them til they darn near shined. There were hot dogs and hamburgers cooked over an old round red charcoal grill, dripping with homemade relishes and chutney from someones spring garden, spicy potato salads, and coleslaw ripe with celery seeds. But those desserts. Oh my. Apple goo bubbled over the sides and out the air holes . . . blueberry crisps oozing with goodness . . . and homemade ice cream straight from the churn. Only the dreaded rhubarb pie sat forlornly and unappreciated in our eyes. We'd spend the rest of the day in the water until our lips were blue and our finger tips shriveled and water logged. We had sparklers when the sun finally went down but nothing so expensive as fireworks. No matter. We'd drag our tired bodies back up the hill and into bed, dirty feet and all. Those were days worth remembering.