Independence Day 2019

John Adams wrote, of Independence Day:

[Independence Day] will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shows, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from the End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.

Forth of July fireworks seem like they would be right up his alley. 

Seeing as how fireworks are such an important tradition, we planned, as a family, to go and see some. It wasn't going to be something fancy, just a relatively small show in an obscure little country town.

I worked all morning, but got home late afternoon in time to go swimming. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, in spite of myself. What do I mean by that? Well, let me elaborate. About half-way through our swim, I managed to trip over an invisible rock (boulder, really) in the river and skinned both my knees practically to the bone, and then as I scrambled out of the water, I tripped again, landing--on my freshly wounded knees, no less--in a patch of stinging nettles. I reached for something, anything, to pull myself up with...and grabbed another patch of stinging nettles. Ah me.

After the disastrous swimming excursion, we had dinner and packed up to go see the fireworks. Mind you, the fireworks weren't supposed to start until dusk, which in our part of the world is roughly 10:00 pm at the moment. We got to the general viewing area not long after seven thirty and set up camp, right across from a Dollar General. This was fortunate, because we'd forgotten to bring any water bottles, so I sallied forth across the road, followed by my vast hoards of siblings and purchased soda and arizona tea and lemonade.

We waited for an eternity. Reggo, Krisbe, and Kennedy got out a board game. Hobbi and I got out our books. We waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Before the "real" show started, there was the occasional firework sent up, probably for experimentation, I suppose?  We were all watching the skyline, eagerly awaiting these, when suddenly, just as it was getting suitably dark, the skyline lit right up, and a gigantic fireball rose heavenward, burning red-gold against the horizon.

We all sat there for a heart stopping moment, knowing this wasn't right, and wondering if in the next moment we would see fireworks or if we would hear sirens and see the lights of emergency vehicles begin flashing a patriotic red-white-and-blue.

Thank goodness it was the former. It couldn't have been more than fifteen or twenty seconds after the fireball had dissipated that the first of the fireworks were set off. It was a rather surreal experience. It took some time for me too sit back and enjoy the show, but gradually the shock of it wore off.

Like I said earlier, the show wasn't a particularly grand affair, but it was lovely, nonetheless. The evening was cool, there weren't too many mosquitoes out and about, and I was actually able to get some pictures of the fireworks on my phone. Most were pretty terrible, but some of them were legible enough to merit showing them off. (Note: From my vantage point I was seeing the fireworks right above that Dollar General with some frightfully obnoxious and bright lights in the parking lot. I tried to avoid them as much as possible when taking pictures, but the lighting at the bottom edges of the pictures suffer, and that's why.)

These first two look like dandelions, do they not?

A Small House and Large Garden

I've recently been reading through Gladys Taber's Stillmeadow series, which I've really enjoyed. I like stories about people who live a-way out in the country, living quietly interesting lives, tending a garden and keeping animals. I was looking for another Stillmeadow book in the library when I came across A Small House and Large Garden, by Richardson Wright. 

The title captured my attention, and the first page stole my heart.

Mr. Abraham Cowley is responsible for the title of this journal, Mr. Abraham Cowley and a gentleman in a certain bookstore. Finding from his list (the bookstore man's) that, for a consideration, he would part with a venerable edition of John Evelyn's "Sylvia"--a kingly quarto bound in full and ancient leather and with a red-and-black title-page--I was seized with an uncontrollable craving. I coveted that book as I had rarely coveted anything; with one fell wish the Tenth Commandment was shattered. And yet I knew that, despite my concupiscence, I would go on coveting it until the end of time because the "consideration" which stood between my desire and its fulfillment was an appalling number of silver dollars. 

As a book lover, I could relate. I was fired with a great curiosity to discover whether or not he ever got his hands on that venerable edition, and added the book to the pile already filling my arms. (I cannot leave the library without getting at least seventeen books. I know. I've counted.)

Taking this newfound book home, I read the first chapter and then, alas! put it aside to make supper. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I had to go to bed (for I worked early in the morning) and could not read on.

However, on my day off, the instant I awoke, I rolled over and grabbed A Small House and Large Garden off my bookshelf and read until it was nearly eleven! Shameful, I know, but it was such an entertaining book that I simply couldn’t put it down.

I’ve looked this book up, determined to get a copy for my own…only to discover that A Small House and Large Garden is my Sylva. It is out of print, and the consideration which stands between my desire and its fulfillment is an appalling number of silver dollars. Woe is me.

Anyway, since you are probably not as fortunate as I am, and your library probably does not have a copy, let me share with you some of my favorite excerpts from this delightful little book.

There was a time, in mid-Victorian days, when householders suffered a veritable motto complex. In the parlor God was asked politely and in cross-stitch to bless that home; the dining-room of a house I knew used to display the suggestion—fitting and seemly—“Wait on the Lord and He will serve you.” One could have a lot of fun selecting the motto for the bathroom (I would suggest the seventh verse of the 51^st Psalm), but in those days bathrooms weren’t so common as they are now.

And

This age also saw the rise of the fireplace motto, those cozy little sentiments about a friend and a nook and a handy book, about none coming too early and none staying too late. I’ve always suspected the hospitality in houses with those greetings; I’ve feared to come early lest the hostess wouldn’t be finished dressing and haven’t dared stay late lest she yawn. And, as for the houses that have the mottoes about books—did you ever look at the books those people read?

And

Taking these up in due order, we have discovered that certain people apparently think that there is something unrefined about eating one's fill. There are especially insistent and reassuring about breakfast. "We only have toast and coffee," or, "We just have black coffee." Never take such people at their word. 

And

In a footnote to an ancient edition of the “Spectator” I came across this delectable reference: “A Mr. Montgomery, a gentleman in the mercantile line, of an amiable character , an enterprising spirit, and great abilities. He traded to Sweden and his business carrying him there, it is said, that, in consequence of something between him and Queen Christina, he was obliged to leave that kingdom abruptly.

         

Not all nephews can be so fortunate as to have an uncle who was obliged to leave a kingdom abruptly in consequence of something between him and the queen. They can at least aspire to an uncle who was obliged to leave the family abruptly in consequence of other things.

And

There is one final mark of the ideal uncle—he remembers his nephew handsomely in his will. Nay, there is a further mark—he dies within a reasonable time, or , as Mr. Montgomery would put it, abruptly.

And

Although he had the memory of a garden to console him, Adam, it seems, was the only one who couldn’t say it was his grandmother’s.

And

It’s a pretty poor grandchild who can’t boast an expert gardener for grandmother. But if some of these florally inclined old ladies could come back to see the flowers their grandchildren are raising, they would doubtless return to the shades silent and ashamed.

And

This, however, is not a disquisition on furniture styles. It is intended to be  (as the title suggests) a few hints on how to know the authors from the furniture. Such knowledge is not superfluous. For it would be an egregious blunder, a fatal faux pas, if, at some select gathering such as the annual banquet of the Authors’ League or a soiree of the poetry Society, you should Mistake Irvin Cobb for a bombé-front secrétaire, or turn on a switch in Bliss Carman’s back and expect him to light up like a floor lamp, or take Miss Amy Lowell for a settee, or accidentally stuff Charles Hanson Town behind your neck for a pillow. They might resent it. Such errors can never be made, if one has a working knowledge of furniture. The following simple suggestions may be of assistance when determining the different between furniture and authors:

Most furniture is made to sit on. It is quite difficult to sit on an author. A few brave souls have invariably tried it, and invariably they came off worsted,. No one ever successfully sat on Mr. Louis Untermeyer, for example. Therefore, when you enter a room, look around for what appears to be a chair. If you can sit on it, then it is a chair. If not, it is likely to be an author.

Are you not excessively diverted? I think everyone should call up any and every publisher they know and demand that they put out a new edition of this gem of a book posthaste. It would be a great service to the public. Obviously.

By the way, for those of you who are curious, Psalm 51:7 is "Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."

Obligatory "It's Been A While'

Well, I think I covered all that in the title. I don't really feel the need to go into a long-winded, two or three (or ten) paragraph apology for not writing that most of you will just skim anyway. It's been a while. I'm sorry.

A recap of my hitherto undocumented life:

June, 2018: Went back West for two months. Got my first “official” job at a restaurant and loved it. Now I have dreams about owning my own restaurant. It’ll be a lot of work, and frightfully expensive, so I have yet to see if this dream will take me anywhere, but it’s always there in the back of my mind and I can’t shake it.

August, 2018: Came back to the East and got sick. Really, really sick. I stopped eating and lost almost twenty pounds. (I had cheekbones for the first time in my life. It was weird.)

September, 2018: Got my second “official” job. At a big supermarket. The Supermarket That Shall Not Be Named, or TSTSNBN, as I call it oh so affectionately.

February, 2019: Finally left my teens behind. Not sure how I feel about that, but, ya know, it could be worse.

March, 2019: Started trying to work out my taxes. Gave up and let my mother work the paperwork out. Maybe next year I’ll be able to figure it out for myself.

April, 2019: Some bad family news hit. Easter week was pretty rough. Had to juggle work, siblings, dogs and campnano. Dropped campnano like a hot potato and haven’t been able to write anything since then.

May, 2019: Started working full time. Suddenly there is no time left. Zero. None.

June: Decided to try my hand at writing again, because I miss it.

So yeah. I exist again. Hello to my old friends of blogspot, if you’re still around. I've missed this place.

~Lissy