A Deep River Year
July 2,  2014

The Fourth of July is our American holiday, a pause in the midst of summer to celebrate the founding of this nation.  Roadside stands not only offer piles of watermelons and not-quite-native tomatoes to provide for family picnics, but also boxes of sparklers,  bottle rockets, cherry bombs, fountains and firecrackers that are designed to make maximum amounts of noise and smoke and a few glorious explosions of light at nightfall.   As a child, my mother warned us against such things ("you could blow a finger off with one of those!"),  though at least once my father brought back a stash to our home in Iowa from a place across the border in Missouri where they were legal.   You could see the bright explosions reflected in his joyous eyes.

If we really wanted fireworks, we'd head out to a field on the edge of town and, with hundreds of other families, spread out our blankets and have a picnic.  As the sun settled on the western horizon we became restless for darkness.   Fireflies twinkled over us as the stars began to come out, one by one, and at last it was night.   We stretched out on our backs and watched spectacular displays erupt over us--great fiery chrysanthemums and waterfalls of light, booming gloriously as ashes drifted down and settled on us.   Never was a child  so happy as when the grand finale of fireworks burst and shuddered in the sky.

In these my older years, I confess, I avoid the traffic and the hungry mosquitoes at whatever local fireworks displays may tempt me.   My Fourth of July is a time to rest and to participate in quieter celebrations.   I walk in the back yard and check the sour cherry tree, hoping that the blue jays will have left enough fruit for a Fourth of July pie.   I gather the sugar snap peas in the loose tail of my shirt and sit in the shade to see if the oriole will come down to feast on the mulberry tree which we let grow by accident.   Across the street the bright orange day lilies line the street, on schedule again for their Fourth of July visitation.   They toss their heads in the breeze, like fireworks.

Fireworks

High in the deep sky
Great showers of light explode,
Fountains and blossoms
Filling the darkness.
Their boom and thunder shake the ground,
Stirring a wide-eyed child to laugh with wonder.
But somewhere another child cowers,
Face buried in a terrified mother’s arms
As she waits for silence to cover her.
There is no delight for her,
No joy of picnic and celebration
In the ancient percussion of death
Dropping from the sky.
We wish her freedom from this.
We would give her a bright summer day
Of games in grassy fields
And sweet starry nights of gentle dreams--
A world where the only explosions
Would be the flash and fire
Of orange blossoms waving
In the peaceful morning
Of a new day.

--Timothy Haut, July 2,  2014