The 4th of July. Also known as Independence Day.
It's a big day in America. It's the day that almost everyone travels to the nearest stretch of water, be that a lake, river or the sea. It's summertime and it's a day of all things American. Flags fly everywhere, bbqs are lit, hotdogs eaten and if you're lucky enough to live in a state that allows them, fireworks are set off.
The Americans are celebrating their independence from the British. Yep. My peeps. Awkward.
In 1776, the Declaration of Independence was signed. The United States of America was no longer a colony of the United Kingdom (known then as the Kingdom of Great Britain).
I didn't learn American history at school, purely because my surname fell into the last half of the alphabet. Had my surname been between A and M, I'd know all about the Redcoats. As it is, I learnt about the two World Wars and Hitler Germany.
My first year in DC (the capital of the country, note), I had my first 4th of July just 3 months or so after arriving. My newly-made friends saw fresh fodder and good-naturedly teased me, calling me a Redcoat endlessly. Honestly, I had NO idea what they were talking about. I just knew that on the 4th of July, there were lots of parades and eating of burgers to be done. Every time I heard the term "Redcoat", I thought, "what, Butlins?". Turns out, the British army who were "kicked out" of the US wore red coats. Not really rocket science, I know. No relation to camping or kumbayah whatsoever.
Today was my 12th Independence Day in the US, all of them in Washington DC. I have to say, my deepest memory is of the heat. The searing, breath-sucking, oppressive heat that hits the city every single year. Last year, we had a party in the garden - most of the guests stayed indoors in the aircon. A few even laid down in the basement as they couldn't hack the heat. It's the kind of heat that soaks every hair on your head, runs down your legs, melts makeup and zaps any energy you might have. It's not pleasant. Coming from England and being of the female gender a) I'd never experienced anything above 80F EVER and b) I'd never really perspired before. Let's get real here - in DC there's no such thing as perspiration. It's sweat. SWEAT. If they had such a thing as an all-over body deodorant that blocks every single pore, I'd buy it.
Walk one block - need a shower. Go in and out of airconditioned buildings - get bronchitis. Meet someone new - pray they don't go in for the handshake or cheek kiss. Sit down outdoors and know that when you stand up, it'll look as though you've wet yourself.
Fireworks. Most states ban them. What? Buy a gun in the supermarket, sure. Buy poxy fireworks once a year? Hell, no. Sparklers fall under the ban, by the way. Actually, to be fair and accurate, it's up to individual counties (there are 1000s of them) to decide whether or not to allow fireworks. Just so happens that most of them say no. DC allows them and so every year, people from all over the place drive to two or three pop-up stalls throughout the city and drive home with their cars stuffed. I am one of those people. I feel like I'm a bad-ass, law-breaking, cool chick. I know. I'm a middle-aged mother, standing there sweating like a god knows what, asking questions such as "How HIGH does that go? Does it do puffy balls or more shooting stars? Do you have them in white?".
This year is the first year that my son (just turned 3) has understood about fireworks. He was made to swear upon pain of death (of his toys) that he wouldn't do so much as stand closer than 100 feet, let alone touch any of the fireworks. At this point they were still in the box. Still, that child has a knack of causing destruction from just looking at something.
Fireworks were lit one by one. The child was enraptured at first, but I sense he'd have been more delighted had a stray rocket set a tree on fire. They were rather small whizz bangs. So small that the dog tried to attack and eat them. Lock one's dogs away, they say. Not ours. She is a big fat ninny wuss except for the lawnmower and fireworks. (Before anyone gets concerned about the dog catching fire, she has super short fur and I was on hand with the hose pipe, a la Backdraft.)
As is a bit of ritual every year, folks watch the national firework displays on telly - around 9pm East Coast time, the main ones are DC and New York. Several years ago I went with some friends to the rehearsal of the DC one. Tony Danza was the MC (yes, he of "Who's the Boss" tv show from the 80s) and the short, gymnast from Heroes, Haydn Panettiere was the star attraction. Right. NYC got Jayz. This year, DC got Michael McDonald and Patti LaBelle. NYC got Enrique and Ariana Grande, MCd by Nick Cannon. Do I sound bitter?
On a more positive note, DC's fireworks are pretty fine. It's always lovely to see and feel such patriotism, regardless of whether one's a native or not. With all things American, they do their celebrations on a large scale and with a lot of pride. It's great.
Everyone out and about today was in red, white and blue. Including the France World Cup supporters (I got a bit of a kick out of that, sorry. Once a Euro, always a Euro). I was tempted to wear a red coat and hang the Union Jack from the front door but my plan was thwarted due to not having said flag, nor red coat. Next year, I shall plan better. Next year, my son will probably disown me. Bring it, child.
Elaine
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