The older I get, the more I look forward to putting my feet up on long holiday weekends.
It wasn’t always that way.
As a youngster, I thought there was nothing better than an action-packed July Fourth. My three siblings and I would decorate the banana seats and wheels of our Schwinns with red, white and blue streamers for the neighborhood parade. Our parents would take us to the VP Fair on the Gateway Arch grounds in St. Louis, where we’d get lost in the crowds (first-aid tents or lost-child areas, and a bunch of staffers with walkie-talkies, never failed to reunite us in the pre-cellphone era). We’d also watch the Thunderbirds fly low over the Mississippi River, and fall asleep on the drive home after the fireworks display.
In the ’80s, there were day trips to Meramec Valley Camp Resort, a members-only hillbilly campground and RV park not far from the famed Meramec Caverns tourist attraction. It might not have been Hilton Head, but who cares when there’s a massive swimming pool, all-inclusive putt-putt and 10-cent Asteroids in an air-conditioned arcade room?
After Mom would unpack the cooler and spread snacks on the picnic table for all-day grazing, she and Dad were content to spend most of the afternoon sitting on aluminum lawn chairs (the ones with colored webbing that needed replacing annually) in a shady spot of our designated campsite, and drink beer or sun tea.
Credit: Handout
Credit: Handout
Summer also was the time for extended family gatherings. My mom’s Midwest relatives convened in Hermann, Missouri. There were some years when turnout was light, so they met at the city park. They crammed the picnic tables together under the weight of German potato salads and fruit pies. Someone fired up the grill and cooked hamburgers and hot dogs. Kids spat watermelon seeds at one another, drank grape Vess soda and played unsupervised until a crybaby got hurt and turned into a tattletale.
Adults did what they do best: visit.
They could sit, eat, drink ... repeat for hours.
Credit: Handout
Credit: Handout
There was one epic Fourth of July when they organized a weeklong family reunion at cousin Jim’s farm. Relatives drove in from as far away as Alaska. Everyone got a Landolt Family Reunion T-shirt, the kind with felt letters.
Jim was a cattle farmer, and the place stank to high heaven. The adults didn’t seem to mind the stench, or the cow piles. Morning after morning, they would stumble out of their tents and RVs, scratch their bellies (put on a shirt, Uncle Bob), unfold those metal chairs, and visit till the cows came home. If someone brought a guitar or a banjo, they’d have an impromptu hootenanny, but they still remained planted in those mesh folding chairs.
Meanwhile, we kids would head to the Loutre River, where we’d rope swing. When it got dark, we begged our older cousins to let us tag along on their frog-gigging missions.
I recently asked my Aunt Barb, keeper of the family chronicles, if she had any photos from those reunions. Sure enough, she scanned images that date back to the early 1970s. You know what’s the same about every single one of them? The adults are just sitting around.
Credit: Handout
Credit: Handout
I especially like the snapshot of Sister Sophia reclining in her long brown habit, and the one of Sister Matilda and Sister Zita chatting with their brother, to whom everyone referred as Uncle Joe (to distinguish him from his son, cousin Joe). Even clergy members deserve to sit a spell.
I’ve nearly reached the half-century mark and, suddenly, sitting around doing nothing sounds like a fine way to spend the Fourth of July. Reclining on a chaise lounge in the sun and catching some daytime z’s, versus a water balloon toss or a few rounds of red rover? I know which one I’d pick if I had my druthers.
Credit: Handout
Credit: Handout
But, my sons and their girlfriends will be with us this holiday, so we planned an activity-filled weekend in North Georgia, with a kayak excursion as the exclamation point. Just thinking about strapping boats to the roof of the car exhausts me. Add the 2-hour drive to Blue Ridge and 6 miles paddling the Toccoa River, and I worry that I’ll keel over.
Maybe the kayak trip will land on a “good” day — one when I’ve got a full tank of energy and my joints don’t creak.
I’m not banking on it.
I expect that I’ll return too pooped to cook, so I already made a casserole and froze it. I’ll pop it in the oven. While it reheats, I’ll indulge in an adult treat.
Booze? Hardly. I’m talkin’ about the La-Z-Boy!
Whatever style of R & R suits you this Fourth of July, I hope you get it. And, if it comes with colorful vintage 1970s folding lawn chairs, don’t forget the screwdriver and replacement webbing.
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