Early Fourth

          So much of my time is spent sitting: reading, writing, re-writing, researching.  I'm learning that I need to get up every hour and move. Otherwise I'm just a bundle of aches and pains.

          I was thrilled to find the yoga teacher I like has returned from maternity leave. I went to her class Tuesday and Thursday. She sits facing us. Behind her a big window looks out onto Kroc Center's three swimming pools. A sheer blind dims some of the light coming in, but through it I can make out little wet children, fat people in wet tee shirts, and fat women in bathing suits enjoying themselves in the hot Texas sun. Every so often a gigantic bucket spills a waterfall into the kiddy pool, and happy shrieks punctuate the air.

          On Saturday night John and I had dinner at the Guadalupe River Club for the first time.  I always thought it was a "dive" but John went there recently to listen to live music and said it was okay, so we thought we'd give it a try. I liked it. We sat on the large wooden deck, high over a grassy bank on the river.  Silvery clouds obscured the setting sun.

          "This feel's like Hawaii," John said."I know you've never been there. . . as an adult."

          I'm glad he amended his statement because I very well remember bailing water from a catamaran when I was eight.

          I enjoyed my gumbo and salad and shared John's Guinness.  On the way out I thanked the owner, who was watching baseball at the bar. It might be fun to come here in winter to watch a football game . . .

          We left at about 8:15.  A firework display was planned for dusk. John decided to find us a good place to watch, which turned out to be the post office parking lot.

          He backed into a parking space and opened all the windows, including the tailgate. While we waited for the sun to set we saw more and more families arrive. Many set up chairs on the grass. Little children played with red, white and blue light sabers. Someone had their radio tuned to an oldies station. "Little Latin Loopy Loop" filled the air.

          John reclined his seat all the way back, leaned back, pulled up his shirt and put his stocking feet on the dash board. I decided to see if Penney's across the street was still open. Maybe I could pee.

          Being out of the car I got to see the whole, magnificent sky, blazing yellow and pink. As I headed toward Penny's the first firework went off: BOOM!  I felt like I was shot in the chest.  Instinctively I put my hands over my ears. BOOM! I turned and headed back to the car.

          I passed a Latino family with a lot of children. I looked at the youngest one, about two, a tiny, frail little girl.  I wanted to grab her and run for cover. I kept walking, holding my hands over my ears. Finally I reached our car.

          "Can we close the windows?" I asked John through the open window.

          "No!" he said emphatically. So I kept walking.  I walked to the side of the post office and sat on a curb. I put my hands over my ears. BOOM!  My chest hurt. I thought I might throw up.

          Stop it, I told myself. Get a grip. I looked up just as the dark night sky was filled with blinding light that pierced my irises, searing my retina.

          I tried to take deep breaths. Every explosion felt like I was being shot. A thought dawned on me: in my last life I must have been killed in battle. Probably World War I, from the way I was feeling. Where was my foxhole?

          Then the wonderful realization struck me: the post office is always open! I opened the door and entered the cool, impersonal, institutional, fluorescently lighted building.  Ahhhh. Safe!

          I spent the next half hour sitting on a table in the lobby of the Kerrville Post office listening to muffled pops of the patriotic display outside.  My feet dangled as I took deep breaths and reminded myself it would be over soon. I thought about my dog and cats at home, glad they were far enough away from this madness.

          I've always hated the Fourth of July. At the age of three my nine-year-old sister tried to get me to see the beauty of sparklers but I just threatened to call the police if she lit one in our back yard. When we moved to Rustic Canyon I hated having to go down to State Beach and sit in damp sand for the fireworks display on the Santa Monica Pier. In my thirties, working at a beach club, I dreaded the drunken crowds and burning bluffs that filled the foggy air with smoke. 

          I continually try to like this holiday.  One year John and I went to Bass Lake with a friend who owned a boat.  I remember floating in the murky water, with the stink of smoke and how it settled over the lake. When we finally got to head back to our cars, I felt like a refuge.

          When we lived on Quartz Mountain, John and I would stand on our deck and watch tiny red, blue and green pin pricks appear, then disappear, thirty-five-miles away in the San Joaquin Valley.  Above us the sky was clear and still, punctuated only by a bat flittering past - the way night is supposed to be.