Happy 4th of July

          My first July 4^th in Texas. Don’t know if we’ll go to the parade. Probably won’t go to the park to see fireworks. This is one of the few towns that’s having a municipal firework display.  Many towns across the country are just too broke and here in south Texas, where the drought drags on, individual fireworks have been banned because of fear of fires.

          I remember the bluffs in Santa Monica catching fire one year and the traffic was bumper to bumper. It felt like a war zone. I watched from the window of my apartment as fire crews climbed down from

Ocean Avenue

to extinguish the blaze. Revelers in convertibles threw beer cans and bottles out of their cars. 

          I’d spent the weekend working at the Sand & Sea club and watched the firework display on the Santa Monica pier with a young Nick Cassavettes and his friends.  His parents John Cassavettes and Gena Rowland were members.  She’s one of my favorite actresses. I remember once when he called with a question about his bill. “Mary Lee from the Sand and Sea,” he said.  I spent fourteen years working on the beach and most of the time it was the perfect job, but Fourth of July was always exhausting.

          Living on Quartz Mountain we would stand on John’s deck and look out toward Fresno and Clovis at dusk.  Then one of us would say, “There!” and point.  We could see tiny dots of red, yellow, and green, for the towns were over thirty miles away.   One year we went to Bass Lake and sat in a little boat with friends. The lake basin filled with smoke and again I felt an unease – noise, smoke, explosions – and was glad when it was over and we could go home.

          Even as a little girl I didn’t like the sparklers my sister lit. I’d  threatened to call the police. I’m such a party pooper.

          The best thing about 4^th of July is that, like Thanksgiving, its non-religious and non-sectarian, for everyone.  I plan to watch the HBO documentary tonight “Citizen USA” (I think that’s what it’s called) about legal immigrants.  I was sickened recently when I read that the INS accidentally notified thousands of hopefuls that they had been chosen in a lottery to immigrate. People sold their homes, their businesses, their properties. Then they were told it was a computer glitch – the lottery picked only from the first few days of applications, not the full thirty, or whatever. Whoever is in charge is completely heartless. He or she should honor their mistake. Period.  But no.

          Yesterday on TV, I heard George Will say that it’s crazy to admit foreign students to American colleges and then after they’ve gotten their degrees deport them. Why not let them stay? We have a shortage of American students getting advanced degrees in medicine, science, etc. Which, of course, is another troubling matter.

          This last week I’ve heard so many stories from friends and family, or read in the paper, that made me think the world does not run on logic but primitive emotion.  Are we all just little children inside, selfish, pouty, inconsiderate of others?

          I think I’ll spend the day pondering my dream: I’m holding on to John’s back, while he swims across a mountain pond.  When he puts his head underwater I’m afraid he won’t see where we’re going. My feet touch bottom. I can feel smooth rocks.  Then I see the green power box and know we’re at the shore. We hike up to a building that’s all lit up – oh, this is part of a hydro-power plant.  The big room is empty but for a reddish rug. Outside a man in cowboy boots dances. I see him through the big windows and dance, too.  The young woman has left her baby outside. She’s smoking a cigarette. Now the dancing cowboy is showing someone around. This is a resort. I wonder how long we’ll stay?