Remembering the fourth

Erin recently asked, "What does the fourth of July mean to you?" Poetic-Acceptance

I don't remember ever having big barbecues, or family reunions. Nothing big and fancy like that, but this time of year does bring back fond memories of my Grandaddy.

Every year, a few days before the fourth, he'd tuck a ten dollar bill into my brother and my pocket, and we'd take a trip down to Mississippi to a little shack called The Cotton Cabin.

I remember it as this giant place filled with every sort of firework your could imagine. If placed against the mega-stores of today, it would probably seem dinky and podunk, but to us, it was massive!

We'd wander the aisles, wide eyed, planning out our purchases. Some years Brian would convince me to pool our money and buy the big stuff, but usually, I opted for the more kid friendly sparklers, sparkle fountains, and roman candles. Brian always went for the bang. Firecrackers, cherry bombs, all noise, no show. We'd carefully count out our purchases, making sure there wasn't a single penny leftover, and home we'd go, little brown paper bags full of joy.

On the fourth, Grandaddy'd take us to Germantown park to watch the big display over the lake. It was my job to pick our spot. I'd scout the entire bank looking for just the perfect place to spread our blanket, and as the sun set, and the orchestra began warming up under the pavilion, we'd lay back upon the warm earth with the scent of muddy lake water in our nostrils, and wait for the show to begin.

I hardly remember the display, even though we watched it every single year. I doubt that my brother does, either. They may have been huge and glamorous, but we were always more intent on getting back to Grandaddy's so that we could blow up our own stuff.

And we would. Lord, we would.

I remember the pebbly surface of the driveway against my feet, the lighting and running, and watching with awe at each of our little fireworks. There were the occasional burnt fingers, of course, but we never did manage to blast the fingers off of our hands, as mother swore we were certain to do.

And as the din of bottlerockets and firecrackers faded into the late hours of night, we'd settle in and just watch the stars and feel so special because we were allowed to stay up late.

To cap off the night, Grandddy would tie an entire pack of blackcats to the bird feeder and they would explode into what seemed like a 20 minute salute to summer.

And so now, much older, what does the fourth mean to me? It's a reminder of my Grandaddy. The man that showed us the world, loved us unconditionally, and left us way too soon.