Red, White, Blue and a Jew
Ok, so truthfully I have to thank my sister-in-law and sisters for the suggestion for this entry's name. There's never a dull moment when we all get together and this occassion started out with my father's 80th birthday celebration. This was scheduled for July 4th at my parent's apartment complex. Planning this event was no small feat and took all 4 of us to pull it off. Having not ever thrown a celebration where the median age was 75, we weren't sure how this would all go off; and aside from forgetting that 1/3 of the attendees who were wheelchair users would need to be waited on and served, it was really a wonderful event. Having it on July 4th, meant that we would end our evening at Lenox Mall at the annual fireworks show.
Now, no one with any sanity goes to this event as there are no less than 60,000 people crammed into a hot parking lot. Parking is pretty much a free-for-all and so anyone with any sense, will park several blocks away to try to have any easier escape route at the end of the evening. We of course, that is my husband, boys and myself stick out like a priest and his family in a red-light district. My husband says, "Someone just said 'rabbi' and pointed to me. How could they tell?" My brother-in-law proceeds to explain to him that on July 4th, no one wears black pants and a white shirt. My husband finds this startling. We settle into our 6x6 spot (there are 20 of us) on the concrete with lawn chairs, food and games. We seem to prefer the "close up" spot where left overs from the fireworks fall on your head, as oppose to the back of the parking lot where you would be deafened by the band. Its a hard choice, but our tranditional spot is the rain of firework ashes. We are always greatful when it doesn't acutally rain, as we have spent some years huddles under a tarp, too wise to get up and leave. Anyway, behind us is a man with a pitbull (one does wonder) and next to us is a family who's son has a mo-hawk (I want to rub my fingers though it, but resist the urge). I ponder the difference between this warrior haircut and my boys who look more like baby billygoats. Now that we are comortable amongst "friends" (and close enough to get to know them too well) and feeling so proud to be a part of the USA, we wait. This part is actually fun as we joke, laugh, play games, eat. Of course, there is the dreaded trip to the portopotties. There are about 25 of them lined up and we actually wait to use them. There is nothing quite as grotesque as using a portopotty in a parking lot. Yet there is some sort of demented comfort knowing that 25 others are using it with you. I am pretty sure it is a fireworks event-right-of-passage to experience relieving oneself in a box sitting in the middle of a parking lot. It eventually gets dark and is time for the fireworks (afer my son has asked me 14 times what time it is) and they are breathtaking! Yes, the firing is something close to a sonic boom and makes one unsure whether you are having a cardiac arrest, but I have found that if you close your ears it helps. So too, wearing sunglasses prevents the fall-out and smoke from getting in your eyes. So another year, blessed to be with family:) Happy Birthday Aba! May you live to 120 and G-d bless the USA.
Now, no one with any sanity goes to this event as there are no less than 60,000 people crammed into a hot parking lot. Parking is pretty much a free-for-all and so anyone with any sense, will park several blocks away to try to have any easier escape route at the end of the evening. We of course, that is my husband, boys and myself stick out like a priest and his family in a red-light district. My husband says, "Someone just said 'rabbi' and pointed to me. How could they tell?" My brother-in-law proceeds to explain to him that on July 4th, no one wears black pants and a white shirt. My husband finds this startling. We settle into our 6x6 spot (there are 20 of us) on the concrete with lawn chairs, food and games. We seem to prefer the "close up" spot where left overs from the fireworks fall on your head, as oppose to the back of the parking lot where you would be deafened by the band. Its a hard choice, but our tranditional spot is the rain of firework ashes. We are always greatful when it doesn't acutally rain, as we have spent some years huddles under a tarp, too wise to get up and leave. Anyway, behind us is a man with a pitbull (one does wonder) and next to us is a family who's son has a mo-hawk (I want to rub my fingers though it, but resist the urge). I ponder the difference between this warrior haircut and my boys who look more like baby billygoats. Now that we are comortable amongst "friends" (and close enough to get to know them too well) and feeling so proud to be a part of the USA, we wait. This part is actually fun as we joke, laugh, play games, eat. Of course, there is the dreaded trip to the portopotties. There are about 25 of them lined up and we actually wait to use them. There is nothing quite as grotesque as using a portopotty in a parking lot. Yet there is some sort of demented comfort knowing that 25 others are using it with you. I am pretty sure it is a fireworks event-right-of-passage to experience relieving oneself in a box sitting in the middle of a parking lot. It eventually gets dark and is time for the fireworks (afer my son has asked me 14 times what time it is) and they are breathtaking! Yes, the firing is something close to a sonic boom and makes one unsure whether you are having a cardiac arrest, but I have found that if you close your ears it helps. So too, wearing sunglasses prevents the fall-out and smoke from getting in your eyes. So another year, blessed to be with family:) Happy Birthday Aba! May you live to 120 and G-d bless the USA.
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