For years, I spent America's Independence Day on the Canadian shores of Lake Erie celebrating my Scottish mother-in-law's birthday. I had to rely upon the distant fireworks display in Cleveland to stoke my patriotism.
Distant fireworks and the inevitable red, white, and blue icing on the birthday cake made by some mysterious woman in Detroit named Vicki. Actually, my mother-in-law's unique Scottish Midwestern twang and her immigrant obsession with American dental care notwithstanding, the celebration always seemed as downright American as apple pie. Stars and stripes napkins, greasy food, whining children of all ages. It could have been Anywhere, USA, except all the stores were open and, for the locals, it was just another lazy summer day.
I liked my Canadian fourths of July mostly because I felt a part of something. Different guests joined the core group each summer, but I could not have imagined it going forward without me there. Oddly, though, like most things, it does.
Since my marriage imploded, I have been relegated to a position of, if not obscurity, at least insignificance, in the suburbs of Chicago for the July Fourth holiday. I am an onlooker once removed, observing the parade and its spectators from a safe distance, with an odd mix of amusement and envy. I am way too cynical (and averse to primary colors) to don some red, white, and blue ensemble and cheer as my twenty-first century town morphs into Mayberry. I find it difficult to work up enthusiasm as local dignitaries wave from their convertibles and local politicians and bank managers toss out seemingly endless supplies of refrigerator magnets. I feel for the high school athletes, their teams' ranks thinned out by summer camp, looking sleepy and sheepish as they ride by, relieved, no doubt, that most of their peers have not yet made it out of bed to witness their humiliation. Young parents, their arms laden with chairs, herd their children down the sidewalks. They all seem happy. They cannot imagine July Fourth going forward without them there.
The crowd on the Canadian shores of Lake Erie has changed over the years. In the small cluster of cottages where my in-laws and their friends created, long before I came on the scene, what we referred to as their Irish Riviera, folks who were barely teenagers when I met them now have offspring who are older than I was on my first visit. Another generation of children has taken the place of my children on the Canadian sand, and I can easily picture them running down the beach chasing sea gulls. 'Scuse me! Pardon me! The birds would scatter, then return, and the cycle would begin again, to everyone's delight. Except, I assume, the birds.The core blood lines are the same, but there have been births and deaths and divorces and marriages, and kids who were supposed to remain forever young have moved on to create family holiday traditions of their own.
The same can be said for the crowd in suburban Chicago. But here, and everywhere, really, things seem strangely familiar, as if nothing has changed. A new generation of young couples and their children crowded the suburban sidewalks for this year's celebration. My eyes played tricks on me; I could swear I saw old friends, looking just as they looked twenty years ago. I could see my own children's faces in the strollers, in the gaggles of pre-schoolers testing their parents' patience. I even thought I saw myself, looking strangely content.
Sometimes I feel left out when things go on without me, but sometimes it's just reassuring. Yes, I was, in some ways, on the outside looking in this year, watching a strangely anachronistic parade, catching Facebook photos of the latest generation on the Canadian side of Lake Erie. But the continuity makes me smile and gives me comfort, particularly as I, like so many others, tweak the old traditions and maybe even create some new ones.
No comments:
Post a Comment