Fireworks over Island Lake (photo by Rene’ Munger)
I sipped coffee on the back deck of the home I share with my wife, Rene’. We watched songbirds flit in and out of our feeders. Osprey spat with each other over the Cloquet River. There was work to be done: I had the second half of our covered front porch to stain. I’d finished the deck portion of the project after church. There was much more to do. But the sunlight, after a month of insistent rain, felt good. My wife and I had gossip to catch up on. There was the Sunday paper to finish as well. All of these things bade me to stay, to keep my keester planted in my chair and to enjoy the early morning sun.
So I did.
Eventually, I made it to the front porch. I moved our small television/VCR from the guest bedroom onto the porch and popped in “The Patriot” starring Mel Gibson. Now, I know Mel’s had his problems: with racism and sexism and antisemitism. But can you find a better movie for the 4th than “The Patriot”? I doubt it very much. To say I watched the video is misleading. I listened to the story. See, whenever I paint, that’s what I do: listen to old movies. As a writer, that’s something akin to doing homework. Study the characters. The pacing. The plot. Learn. Always learn.
Despite the newness of the day, the sun was hot and the air was still. My hands and fingers cramped as I worked the stain into the spars and the railing of the porch, the most tedious part of the job. The deck (which I’d finished on Sunday) was the most physically taxing because, despite my wife’s admonition to use a roller and a long handle, I stained the decking with a brush.
“It covers better if you use a brush,” was my refrain.
“Don’t complain to me then, when your back is sore and your knees ache.”
On the 4th as I stained the railing, my back bore the residue of my impertinence but I did not vocalize my pain.
“I’m done. You ready to go?” I asked my bride after completing the job and taking a quick shower.
Rene’ had been productive herself. She was busy all morning pouring concrete bench legs and tops for her glass mosaic garden benches she creates (see below for a sample. You can email her at [email protected] if you like what you see).
“Ya. Load up the car.”
Jack wandered up from the basement. Chris was tinkering with something or other in his room.
“Chris, we’re leaving.”
“I’ll be up at Greg’s in a while,” he replied.
We’ve been spending 4th of July at my brother-in-law and sister-in-law Greg and Sue Privette’s cabin on Island Lake for nearly twenty years. It’s one of the few times during the year that my wife’s family gathers. Over the years, of course, there have been sunny days and stormy days and hot days and cool days. That’s summer in NE Minnesota: You never can tell just what sort of weather you’ll be blessed with on the 4th of July.
Well, yesterday was wondrous. A slight breeze kept the bugs at bay. The sun stood high and warm. Nieces and nephews and sons and daughters and the occasional old fart (that would be me) donned swimming trunks and dove into the cool waters of the Cloquet River (Island Lake is a reservoir on the river) to feel the joy of summer at the lake. Kids tossed fishing lures from a paddle boat. I tipped my son Jack and my nephew Alex and my niece Clare out of the floaties they were jealously guarding. No one dared disturb Rene’ in her inflatable as she floated serenely on flat black water. We all knew better than to dunk the queen of the floaties.
And then we ate.
Brats and burgers and steaks sizzled on two gas grills as Greg and Allen flipped meat and cooked to perfection at the top of the hill next to the cabin. Wet from the lake, I popped the top off a cold Leinnies and chatted with Chris and Dylan and Dylan’s girlfriend, Shelly. We talked about Grandma Merc’s recent passing and Grandpa Don, who couldn’t attend the picnic because of his own health problems. We told old stories (and some new ones), discussed politics, and solved the world’s problems in short order. No voices were raised. No wounds were opened. The kids ran to and fro, my little grandnephew Ryan (encouraged by Dylan) doused the adults with squirt guns that he insisted on reloading at the water’s edge. Rose breasted grosbeaks and purple finches and goldfinches darted in and out of thick forest and gorged at feeders. Elwood (Colleen and Allen’s sweet but somewhat dimwitted Springer Spaniel) sat waiting for chipmunks to err. At the appearance of the striped little rodents, Elwood would launch himself at his prey. He was too slow. He’s always been too slow. But failure doesn’t deter Elwood: His memory is self-erasing.
Dusk fell. Greg’s wife Sue passed around raspberry dessert: overkill atop a five thousand calorie day. Addison, the newest addition to the Privette family, sat on her young mother’s lap, bundled against the bugs and played slap hands with her grandmother. All around the lake, fireworks began to appear. Spidery webs of cascading light fell slowly above still water. A pair of loons objected nosily to the display. Stars appeared above the pyrotechnics.
When we arrived home, we were greeted by a hayfield filled with dancing fireflies. Thousands of tiny lights winked on and off in the high grass. Lightening slashed in the west. Thunder boomed. Against the advancing thunderstorm, the report of rockets being launched over the surrounding lakes continued. A pair of loons flying high above the river uttered their final protests.
It was a fine 4th of July.
Peace
Mark
One of Rene’s benches. Built from the ground up.
