Whispers and fireworks

it's just me and the cloth today, quietly

 While our country contorts itself into a position where history is all roses, many of us are finding little to celebrate beyond significant progressive wins in states that were formerly deep red. I will not turn on the TV today. Social media is bad enough.

Talk of the Bicentennial, now fifty years ago, gave me something else to think about.  The country was deliriously wrapping every damn thing in red, white, and blue. Everyone I knew was ride sharing, coupon clipping, check kiting poor. There was a recession going on. 

But on the 4th of July, 1976, Jimmy and I went public. That is, we gave up sneaking around behind everyone's backs.

I couldn't tell you if it was hot, I was stupid in love. The skies were blue and clear and towards dusk we parked my VW and hiked up to the back lawn of Phelps Memorial Hospital in Tarrytown. From there you could see miles down the Hudson River towards New York City. 

It was too far away to see any of the Tall Ships but, as darkness fell, each little town and village on both sides of the river put up their fireworks shows. It was magical, but what I remember most was him taking my hand in his and that he hummed along with the canned music and didn't care if I heard him.

There's always a third wheel in a good love story, isn't there? Jim's cousin was with us. When the main fireworks show was over, and people were packing up their picnics and kids, Jim walked the mile or so to bring the car up the hill. Cousin Steve stayed with me and after some small talk told me, "He will pull the stars down out of the sky for you."  

Jim pulled up  to the now empty parking lot and the convertible top was down. The entire back seat of the car was filled with little potted white azaleas that he'd plucked from the landscaping on the way up the hill. 

I remember how they looked like stars.