Go Forth and Fourth

I’ve lived in small towns and large, and perhaps this is remembered through the filmy haze of nostalgia, but some of the best Fourth of July celebrations I’ve ever experienced have been in Boston.

Initially the idea of half the population of the city jammed onto a small spit of land between the highway and the Charles River, a crowd that starts early in the AM to get the best real estate and builds until the first of the rocket’s red glare at nightfall, made me want to lock myself in my apartment and watch the ‘works on my grainy black and white television. Or, high-tail it to the Greyhound station and catch the Fourth in my home town, where the evening would end when somebody set something on fire or threw up in the barbecue pit.

But where else could you have an all-day picnic, meet new friends and get reacquainted with old ones, watch buff, half-naked guys (if that’s your thing) jogging down the Esplanade, watch holiday-themed rafts drift down the river, and, as darkness settled in, listen to the Boston Pops and see one of the most dazzling fireworks displays outside of Operation Shock and Awe – all for free. Which is especially appreciated when you have no disposable income and an apartment the size of a broom closet.

These were the days before security guards and bomb-sniffing dogs searched you for merely leaving your building, so I don’t know what kind of restrictions have been placed on this event since. But back in the early-to-mid-eighties, it was one giant citywide party. The chicks on the next blanket with the Coke bottle full of margaritas and the guys with the Trivial Pursuit game were your new best friends.

And some years, the best part was the trip back home. Screw the subway, even though it was free (the only other time you could go tokenless was on New Year’s Eve). It was hot, and took forever, and how cool was it to walk home along the river, safely because of the numbers walking along with you, enjoying the company, the night breeze off the water, and the way the moon was in a different place relative to the Prudential building every time you turned around to check?

And then I got older. And the idea of a day spent in the hot sun surrounded by the great un-deodorized got less and less appealing. So I began to get better ideas. Like altitude. Surely I could find an acquaintance, or an acquaintance of an acquaintance, or a coworker’s friend’s cousin with a rooftop view of the Charles?

It wasn’t happening. And at the time I was dating Husband, who lived in a small town and had come to visit me for the Fourth and wanted to do something in the big, bad city which didn’t involve become so intimately close with the big, bad city.

So we went to the top of the Hancock Tower. It, along with the Pru, had an observation deck back then (again, before security guards and bomb-sniffing dogs) and for a couple bucks, you could go up and see forever. On a clear day, of course.

We were smug with the realization that this was the greatest plan ever. Everyone was going to be down THERE, sweating and packed in like sardines, and we could be up HERE, living the good life.

I was anticipating something decadently cool, like the time I was able to transcend my usual standing-room-only seat in Fenway for a boyfriend’s corporate box, where you had your own entrance and waiters bringing you icy cold beer.

And it was cool, but turns out a lot of other people had the same idea. And you couldn’t hear the Pops except through a tinny speaker they’d hooked up for the occasion, which didn’t work that well, and while Husband continued to praise our cleverness, I kept feeling like something was missing.

I didn’t feel like I was part of it.

The view was spectacular, but I couldn’t see the rafts on the river. The fireworks were pretty, but I couldn’t feel the air vibrate and become a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” with the crowd as each new payload was launched from the barge.

But I didn’t want to ruin his buzz.

By the next summer I’d moved back to New York, to his small town, and we went to the small-town Fourth of July celebration, because that’s what everybody did. First a barbecue at somebody’s house, then the drive to the field, because it was much too far to walk. There was a strategy. Where to park so that you could get out first. Otherwise, you’d be stuck in traffic all night.

And boy, I felt like such a fish out of water you could serve me at a sushi bar. Husband knew everybody; I only knew him and his friends. Dress was small town casual; the girls had mall hair and blue eye shadow. (I am less of a snob now, thank you. But then you could just call me “quiche woman in a barbecue town” – not my own line, I stole it from a country-western song) The ‘works went off at dusk and were, frankly, a little disappointing.

But I got used to it. And then we stopped going. Turned out it wasn’t Husband’s thing, either. He didn’t like crowds. I was losing my taste for them. Except when a baseball game was involved.

We have mellower Fourths now. A cookout at a neighbor’s, their kids setting off bottle rockets in the field. And the evening usually ends when someone sets something on fire or throws up in the barbecue pit.

And that’s fine.