Fourth in My Town

Cooler this morning than it has been lately, six degrees cooler at 75F and 74%. The 32401 weather map says wind at 2mph but I don’t feel it here. I’m no weather observer but maybe Hurricane Arthur sucked away some of our misery. Circling at category 2, Arthur is bothering the North Carolina shore with 100mph winds at the moment, time to think about any loved ones who may be there.

First time in weeks for sitting out on my downstairs front screen porch. What do I see? Green navigation light. What do I feel? Thoughts for a happy Fourth to all, both militant and triumphant.

Sky has moved from black to dark blue, lighter off to the east and growing lighter by the second. Overhead looks clear. TJCC are due here from Tallahassee mid to late morning. Joe might conceivably arrive from NC today, but more likely tomorrow. What comes to mind this Fourth of July? In fact, it comes every Fourth then goes away.

The memory is fairly clear, so I would have been maybe three years old, summer of 1939 I’m thinking. We are at my grandparent’s house on Baker Court, two blocks from where I am right now. I’m too young yet to be aware of their history, but Mom and Pop live there now, having fled this house about 1920, moved here and there for ten years trying to outrun their love and grief and memories after losing Alfred, finally returning to St. Andrews after all. I've tried walking away from feelings, it doesn't work. That Baker Court house is gone now, but on walks I still stroll by where it was and remember Pop’s cars in the garage out back, Chevrolet "coach" they called the two-door sedans in those days, and a Plymouth coupe. And there’s that huge old oak tree, still there. There are some things I remember about that house, including that they lived next door to the Bennett family, where I first knew Julian and Don. Betty and Margaret Baker live two doors down, and beyond them the Joyners and Miss Ivy. Here I am three-quarters of a century later, wandering in mind, my not unusual habit, where was I? Ah, July 4, 1939.

We are standing in the front yard at the house on Baker Court, a dirt road. Pop sets up several Roman candles in a row, strikes a match, lights one, and runs like hell. It shoots off into the sky and bursts into stars, an awesome sight for a tiny boy.

What’s happened since that evening? I’ve lived my life, lived and loved and do still love mightily. Most all those folks are gone, including Julian died not long ago. I officiated Charles Joyner’s funeral at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church some years back, interring his ashes in the courtyard as a member of his family read The Nativity Story from St. Luke, KJV, because Charles had always loved doing that for his family at Christmas. The beautiful Baker girls married and moved away, but not far, in fact, Margaret married Bill Lee and they are my next door neighbors now. Bill fondly remembers my grandfather from long years ago, in fact, he and a couple of his buddies dove up sheets of tin and Pop’s adding machine from the Bay bottom after a hurricane, maybe it was 1936, swept through here and destroyed Pop’s fish house out on the pier across the street. This is my town.

Fourth of July. What will happen with all these memories, when? It doesn’t matter.

Sky is light blue, a wispy white cloud wafting over my cedar trees. Bay is flat. This is my Bay, but only on loan.