THE FOURTH OF JULY

                                              

So, it’s another Fourth of July in Crosslake. For many of us, we get into some kind of a patriotic fervor on the Fourth, and for others, it’s just a time to let off a little steam. My next-door neighbor, who is in his late seventies biologically, and in years about fourteen when it comes to fireworks, will be at it again this year. Over the years, he has burned up more gunpowder than the North did in the Civil War; and for many of us at the lake, it brings back memories of Dunkirk, or the siege of Berlin. After the Fourth, my old Labrador spent the rest of the summer in therapy for many years, until I learned to wrap his head with duct tape and cotton balls. The birds and animals are strangely absent from our neighborhood for two weeks after the Fourth.

Now the neighbors across the lake, not to be outdone, or simply in retaliation—I’m not sure which—have gotten into the act, too, so this year I hung a white sheet out of my bedroom window, put my dog in the truck, and headed for quieter pastures. To celebrate our war victories is one thing—even though we might have to go back sixty years to find one we won—but to reenact the whole dang war is another. I have fresh dirt piles in my backyard now, and it might just be a gopher or then again, it might be a land mine or an IED.  I’m not sure if Crosslake has a bomb squad or not, but my other neighbor has a hungry dog who likes to dig, so I put a few little sizzlers sausages on top of the dirt pile. I should have an answer soon.

When I was growing up back in Staples one Fourth of July, they invited the National Guard to be in their annual parade. This included a large tank that drove down Main Street, and then for a treat, shot off that big cannon hanging off the front of it while a platoon of soldiers fired their rifles. The tank must have used a blank shell because I went out west of town the next day, and everything seemed to be intact out there. However, the concussion from the big gun took out all of the windows in the Red Owl Store, and shell-shocked a third of the town. Several old vets were seen running out of the VFW, going home to get their uniforms on and grab their rifles. My aunt Bertha, who had been a transcriptionist for the army during WW II, ran home and sent an encrypted message to the pentagon that read, in part, MacArthur lied. It isn’t over. Need help immediately. Under siege as we speak. The local cop, who was a dead ringer for Gomer Pyle from Mayberry, was never seen again—but they did find the squad car, idling in front of the jail, with all four doors open. I was told later they were just airing the car out. I did notice a lot of underwear on the wash lines around town the next day. The rumor mill started the next day, and it was reported that three Japanese zeros had strafed the Staples airport, and Percy Herman’s pontoon had been sunk by a torpedo, in the Crow Wing River, by the golf course bridge. To the youth of today—that feel sorry for my generation because we didn’t have any pot to smoke back then—top that for excitement, guys.

Well, good people, the world war is over. Since then, there have been others and win or not, we should be proud of our military. We live in a great country with a lot of freedoms—even the freedom to write articles like this. Happy Fourth of July!