There's Still America

Behind all the madness, we're kids on a crazy playground.

We are ever descending into chaos in American culture and politics. If you watch enough of the news from either side of the aisle (and I watch little of any), the impression would be that the republic is a little like the merry-go-round torture devices that people my age grew up riding on the playground.

Solid enough, not really going anywhere, but perpetually pushed faster and faster by the crazy kids until everyone was either flung off at the speed of our screams or vomiting chocolate milk and pizza all over the place in an early experience of vertigo. (And of course, like America, we all wanted to get back on no matter how wild it got. It’s like elections. ‘Do it again! Do it again! That was awful and wonderful!’ Vomit sound…stitches…etc.)

Full disclosure, ours were even more hazardous and joyful, being made of splinter-ready wood salvaged from Civil War battleships, held together by tetanus.

That analogy having been stretched to the limit, let me say that I got a magnificent lesson in America on July 4th.

Jan, her father Len and I went to the local celebration in Princeton, West Virginia. We walked from our house, took lawn chairs and were handed small American flags by the smiling folks from the Rotary. We plopped down in full view of the stage. Regional bands played some original songs and some covers.

It was hot but WVU Hospitals had free water to keep us from collapsing in dehydration. (Nice touch guys!)

As we walked in we listened to the hot dog eating contest being directed by a local radio DJ. The winning number was ten; semi-pro, of course. (Even that number makes me feel queasy.) Later there was a hula-hoop contest, a trivia contest, a ‘who’s dressed in the most red, white and blue contest’ and ‘who’s lived here the longest.’ Sporadic explosions from amateur fireworks popped off all around as the music played on and the sun set behind incredible clouds.

Finally the main attaction came on stage; a Lynrd Skynrd cover band called Second Helping. Now I’ve listened to a lot of Lynrd Skynrd and I have to say that these folks did a great job! From appearance to moves to music, it was great. It was like I was right there, in 1975, listening to a Lynyrd Skynrd cover band!

At one point a little boy was reportedly missing; the band stopped the concert, turned on the lights and the lead vocalist called his name until he came to the stage to his parents. Then the show went on as planned.

Jan and I even danced in front of the stage to ‘Tuesday’s Gone’ as the air cooled and more and more small-time pyrotechnics streaked to the sky all around. Bits of paper fell on us from the sky. The air was thick with smoke; some from cigarettes but mostly burnt powder from fireworks. (I would be remiss as a Southerner if I didn’t say it smelled like freedom.)

Eventually the professional fireworks took off, filling the night sky with more explosions and concussions as the band closed it down with ‘what song is it you want to hear?’ The notes of ‘Freebird’ filled the air and the hearts of everyone, many singing along to that piece of music now iconic to Southerners. Eventually we all shuffled off to cars and homes and passed out for the night, properly gorged on Americana like Baptists filled with sermons and casseroles.

So sure, it was like any other July 4th celebration, right?

Maybe. But what was magnificent was that there wasn’t any mention of politics from the stage. There were no banners being waved, no screams about any cultural issue. No discussion of debates or elections, economies or anything else.

There was no inequality; it cost exactly zero dollars to go to the event and all were welcome.

Everyone was kind. Surely somebody was drunk but they didn’t act like it. Young and old were all about, all together; octogenarians laughing with toddlers, teenagers dancing with their parents, wee babies pushed back and forth in strollers, drifting off to ‘Simple Man.’

There was gray hair and pink hair and no hair; there were polo shirts and there were torn cut-offs. There were kids covered in patriotic face paint and adults covered in tattoos and piercings. Police and fire and EMS mingled in the crowd. And nobody, that I saw, was angry at anybody.

Doubtless there were lots of viewpoints in that crowd; lots of lifestyles. Blue collar and white collar mixed together for the gift of free entertainment. (I mean, there were probably Presbyterians and Pentecostals together!) Nobody’s differences mattered in the face of music, food and multi-colored starbursts high in the sky on a muggy Appalachian night where we all celebrated the simple fact of being American.

That night, for a bit, America seemed to me a bit less like the merry-go-round and more like the old metal swing-sets.

The kind where we pushed each other, and pumped our legs to go higher and higher, always dreaming that one magical day we could actually go all the way over the top bar and make a complete circle. (But usually just hitting some kid who walked in front of us, then jumping out and skinning our knees.)

But the wind in our faces, the rise and fall of speed and the brief taste of weightlessness at either end, the perpetual if unattainable dream of flight, the common love of it shared by every kid, I guess maybe that’s more like America at its heart. At least it felt like it to me that night.

So Happy Birthday America, you great, joyous, squeaking, creaking playground of humanity!

Long may your music blare, your fireworks explode and your people find reasons to come together in love and hope. And a little danger.

Edwin