We have had some memorable Independence Day celebrations,
but only one stands out with fear akin to images of apocalyptic chaos. It was
during our “homestead days” when we had moved to the country, lived by our
garden and animals, and contemplated a world of peace and love. At that time we
had not experienced a rural American Fourth of July.
All chores done, a wonderful summer meal settling in our
bellies we decided to take the children – eight year old daughter, six year old
son, and the baby in the infant carrier on our backs – to the county fair
grounds for some country fun. Remember this is 4th of July, not the
charming harvest days in the fall. This was a completely different crowd.
The temperature soared past 90 degrees. Carney hawkers in
smudged shirts with faces glistening from slow moving streaks of sweat taunted for a piece of the
money pie. To pass the time until evening when the fireworks would finish the
day folks congregated in the grand stands to take part in bear fights. Yes, bear fights as in Black Bear.
Men from the audience were chided to come down to the
ring, pay a dollar and wrestle the brown bear who had been pacing the edges of
the ropes in the ring. Ragged, aging men from a local motorcycle gang
challenged each other with shoulder punches and loud laughter to show their
toughness against the bear. One burly gang fellow was especially prodded by his
colleagues to get in there and take that hairy (bleeper) down. When the human
challenger took off his shirt he looked amazingly like his furry opponent.
The bear stood on his hind legs which made him tower over
the human and lumbered toward the man. Mr. Motorcycle guy looked visibly
afraid, while people in the audience began shouting for blood. The bear hovered
above the man. The man began punching the bear. Punch. Punch. Until he managed
to slug the bear’s jaw. The angry referee/owner pulled the bear back by his
leash and ordered the man out of the ring. The audience went wild. We sensed
serious danger and gathered up our children who wisely questioned our lack of
wisdom bringing them to this event in the first place. As we left the grand
stand, the motorcycle gang was surrounding the wrestling ring demanding their
hero’s dollar back. Surprisingly the bear owner refused the refund! We got the heck out of there
and decided to linger on the grounds until the fireworks started, which was not
such a great idea either.
The crowds outside the arena pushed together tightly to
get a close view of the explosions. As the rockets began to fire up to the sky,
it became apparent that something was terribly wrong. Rockets were exploding
too close to the ground spewing burning cinders on the crowd. We grabbed our
children and pushed our way to our old parked pickup truck. Getting out of the town turned into another
event as we turned down one street to find police had blocked the way with
flashing lights stirring up the atmosphere. We scooted down another street and
finally got onto our country road, which was not idyllic as the song goes, but rather
full of raucous alcohol crazies weaving across the lines, screaming and
laughing and throwing big green bottles in the ditches.
At about a half
mile from our farm, smoke began floating from under the dash board, then the
lights went out. No moon. We have to walk. The sense of danger swooped over us,
when our little boy turned to his dad and said, “I brought my flashlight.” I
almost cried.
We made it home safely to a joyful Amos who repeated over
and over, “where were you guys?!”
There are lots of stories in A Homestead Decade - How Crunchy Granola Changed My Life, Amazon Kindle e-book (works on most digital devices) just $2.99. I hope you enjoy the book and the blog and send a little note about what you think. Enjoy a safe holiday this year. Thanks for stopping by.
Helene
