fireworks, 2013

We went to them, and the little kids are so little they don't really remember Lori.  They know her through the voice of all the rest of us.

Well, the story is this:  For years and years, Lori would have us to her house for supper, and make bbq chicken, and late in the evening, we'd hike down a little rut of a trail to a viewing spot and watch fireworks.

So now we must do this without her.

The first year was the worst.  Other people lived in her house and we had no where to go, just each other.

But we found a new spot on the lumpy boulevard between the Chinese restaurant and the service road that buffers the highway.

And we have fun.  We love her far too much not to.

This is old history, been even on this blog before, but here we go again, another July summer night--2007, another bunch of fireworks, indistinguishable from any that have gone before:

"We went to the fireworks tonight, like we do mid-July every year.   Lori used to have us for supper and then we’d head down the hill from her house, following the little rut of a trail to the boulevard between the street and parking lot at the mall, sit on blankets together and watch fireworks.  We’d apply bug spray and there was bickering and also laughing.  So now we go to remember her.  Plus these are quite awesome fireworks.

Today though I’ve been so down, introspective, anxious.  I always get anxious when money is tight, yet we’re sure been in worse spots than this. This is seriously not a big deal.  Customers will pay. We’ll pay our bills. It’s business as usual, so why it’s stressing me out, I don’t know.     I suppose because two are tax bills and taxes always freak me out. You know they can FINE you and torture you and what-all I don’t even know.   So far, in all these years, it has not happened.  But it could. No, it isn’t.  But it could.  I told my brain to shut up, but I still felt a little short of breath.

We spread out blankets on the hard lumpy boulevard grass in front of the Chinese restaurant tonight.  We found this spot the year after Lori died.  Other people lived in her house; we had nowhere to go, so we improvised.   But it’s a great viewing spot.  We had our 8 youngest kids with us tonight, the little ones in pjs, and they were laughing and taking goofy pictures with a digital camera while we waited.  

Inside the Chinese restaurant, yellow lighting glowed against red satin wallpaper and dark laminate tables.  As the fireworks began, colors lighting the sky, loud pops and bangs, smoke illuminated from all angles in flashes, I thought, “Lori, Lori, Lori, Lori.  How could you leave me?”  Then I thought, well it wasn’t as if she had a choice.  She didn’t want to either.   Then it was just, “I miss you so much,” that old kick in the chest, and the kids and flowered pajamas, fireworks, colors all blurred together in the dark.

Then a baby appeared at my elbow, a little guy about a year and a half old, wispy hair, round belly.  He recognized kids—they always recognize their own kind—and came to sit with us.  In a minute, his socially appropriate parents tried to drag him off, “Come sit with Mommy.”  I could hear him angrily fussing at them, and when I looked he was arching his back while they tried to distract him.   I told them we did not mind if he sat with us. We like friends.   So they left him go, and he ran to sit close beside Julia and me.  

 I touched his hair, rubbed his tiny back.   His parents crouched next to us commenting on the fireworks, did he see them?  He didn’t; he was looking from one kid to the next with a grin on his face.   Lori loved babies as much as I do, and this guy with his handsome Hispanic dad and cute biker mom, was quite adorable.  It turns out the baby’s name was Timothy Dean, and I introduced him to our own Timothy Dennis, who was quite pleased to meet him.    It all felt like a hug on a beautiful summer night.

No conclusions to be drawn, nothing.   When the fireworks ended, we waved good-bye to sweet Timothy Dean and his parents, folded up our blankets and headed home for bed—the end of July 15, 2007."

One of my most favorite-ist pictures:  Lori and Little Jay:

Lori, Lori, Lori.  How very loved you are.

Good night.  The sweetness of July kind of carries the whole year.   love you all, Val