A Different Independence Day
Finding Hope In This Dark Moment
On Independence Day, when I was growing up, we would go to cookouts at the Weinstein’s* house. There was always a kickball game, adults vs. kids and when the sun went down, Mr. Weinstein handed out sparklers to all of us children and his teenage sons set off fountains, firecrackers and bottle rockets way down on the lawn while we, awestruck and exhausted, watched from what the mothers deemed a safe distance on the back deck.
Before the game, Mr. Weinstein stood grilling kosher hot dogs and burgers while the other fathers stood around him, pulling bottles of Miller Lite, Michelob or Iron City Ale from the icy Igloo cooler, talking about how the Pirates were doing that year.
The women, meanwhile, shmoozed in the kitchen, arranging their fruit salads or layered brownie desserts on the long buffet table. They drank instant coffee with Sweet’N Low or sipped Lipton iced tea. Someone, I suppose, was expected to stay sober.
We children ran around outdoors, roaming free until the food was cooked and the game ready to begin. I was sometimes invited into the upstairs bedroom of the Weinstein girl, who was the same age as my older sister, but more often than not was told to get lost.
