Independent, Inching Forward
Soon you have the sense you are talking about the same things, which is when it hits you . . . you have only inched forward.
No Fourth of July fireworks in town this year, which put the kibosh on our friends’ annual porch buster that a good portion of the Main Street and neighborhood crowd has been coming to for years. Their porch looks over the town pond, you see, from which the display launches, very professionally, special fireworks barge and all, lasting nearly thirty minutes. Across the pond, the hill going up behind the Meeting House offers equally fine viewing for the fifteen hundred, or so, people (basically, the size of the resident population) that attend from here and elsewhere; meaning, that for one shining moment, Fourth of July gives us a New England summer population to write home about, inclusive of extra duty police and bumper to bumper traffic.
(It is nothing compared to stretches of Route One in Maine, of course. I remember taking over an hour to drive from York Harbor to Ogunquit, which is less than ten miles. We agreed, that day, to prohibit travel to my wife’s parents except in the off-season.)
I do not believe it was the crowds that did in this year’s celebration. From the start, the fireworks have been run by volunteers and paid for with donations, not taxes. I recall boxes on the front desk of our inn and the market placed by volunteers to collect the contributions.
I think the event got too big. Other towns cut back their fireworks show, driving more families with their blankets and coolers to our hillside. Also, I remember discussion last year, or the year before, of how competitive it had become booking the fireworks display companies. In this part of the world, you have to work top, down, beginning with the Boston Pops extravaganza, followed by places on the Cape, a few along the crowded coast of Maine, the beaches of Connecticut and Rhode Island, and so on, until getting to hamlet-size venues such as ours, overrun by fifteen hundred revelers.
So, we are taking a breather. But it is a shame to be without our friends’ party because it is normally the first summer event—after school ends and before summer camps begin—when you get to see people you have not seen since the holiday season. We run into each other over the winter, in the aisles of the market, or at the town dump on Saturdays, but not when small sandwiches, cheese trays, and assorted cookies are present. And our friends always have plenty of shrimp cocktail.
The ability to host a good portion of a town when entertaining is an indication you live in a rural place. If one decent-sized back porch, along with kitchen, living, and dining room, is enough space to gather a representative slice of the active population—a couple of Select Board members, a church minister, or two, the police chief, a fire captain, librarian, a few of the younger people, plus the neighbors up and down the road —you are in the country.
People may attend that you see, regularly. You skip over them to catch up with the passing ships, and soon into those conversations, you have the sense you are talking about the things you discussed with them last year at the same time, which is when it hits you that, heck, you have only inched forward. You are a year older, three-hundred-and-sixty-five days have passed, but mostly you have been occupied with keeping things as is. The roof is still on the house. Both cars are still on the road. If you get up in the middle of the night you can find your way in the dark. Everything remains familiar. Hopefully, no one was seriously hurt or injured, and that is the main thing; although, these are gatherings when you learn someone was diagnosed with something over the winter, which is why they are not there. The wife is across the room, surrounded by others who have not seen her since the news broke, hearing details. She is brave-faced. Getting out and coming to the party because the other one wants her to—can’t stay home all the time; you need to be with our neighbors and friends.
Another month and we should be through it, she explains.
The retirees have been traveling. You get the stories of Italy, Egypt, the river cruises; lots of places you would like to see. You get the winter skiing stories, and if someone is renovating a kitchen, or building a barn, you get those stories. The kids are one grade ahead of last year, although I am always surprised by college graduations. I was only hearing yesterday they had gone off to college when, suddenly, I am confronted with the fact they are done.
We will have to wait now for Old Home Days in August, the next great gathering. Parades, contests, displays, and the Volunteer Fire Department chicken bar-b-que. Not much will have changed in a month. Some of the conversation will be about Fourth of July fireworks and which towns—not ours—had them. One or two brave souls may use the occasion to start drumming up support for fireworks next year.
I can go either way. After sunset on the Fourth, battling mosquitos, I sat outside and listened to the booms coming from someplace over the hills. When my wife got home from work, she watched the Boston Pops display on television. They were fitting ends to the day, but I probably missed the cheese board more than the fireworks.
For now, I am still independent, still inching forward.