Ah... what a country
I was listening to a story being narrated on National Public Radio. This was a long time ago, while I was driving on Route 128, in Boston. The Greek accent of the storyteller was distinct.
The narrator shares a Fourth of July day, from times past. In a neighborhood in Queens, a large extended family are woken up by the patriarch. It was a dictum: on Fourth of July, everyone must go to the parade.
Confetti and trumpets, joyous spirit abounds. Floats mesmerize the grown-ups and children alike. Cheers for the high school band. The Fire Department yet again proves to be the most popular. Veterans who saved the world ride in long open Cadillacs. Tri-colored ice cream sweats into little palms of small people as they run around. Amidst the aahs and oohs, one hears exchanges in seemingly every language spoken by man.
In the evening, family and friends get together for a barbecue. Etta James sings I just want to make love to you. Music from the olde country spurs impromptu dancing. Food in abundance, a potpourri from back home and the new world, decorated in red, white and blue. Teenagers drain Uncle Christos’ punch.
As the evening ascends and guests start leaving, the patriarch walks to his usual corner in the backyard in his slow stride. He is joined by his friend, the one who accompanied him on the voyage across the ocean. A younger man, the first born, joins. The patriarch lights a cigar and takes a big puff, as a cloud of smoke masks his weather beaten face. The other two follow. Whisky is poured in coffee mugs. An audible sigh after the first sip. Night temperatures cool, stars ablaze, crickets chirp, the dog lies forlorn. Streamers rest lazily on shrubs, the last remnants of the day.
From the backyard one hears the clutter of pots and pans being cleaned and organized in the dimly lit home. Children are being herded to bed.
Amidst all that, a young boy escapes out to the backyard. His mother in tow, scowling at the misdeed. The boy throws his arms around the patriarch and holds on to him as the mother tries to claw him away. “Pappous, Pappous, Pappous,” the child pleads. The patriarch hugs and kisses the child; counsels him to listen to his mother.
As the child is dragged away, the patriarch takes a long puff on his moist cigar. Reflecting on the day but as much to the life made for his people, he utters those words he has been known to say on occasions, “ah… what a country.”
That Fourth of July day is etched in the child’s mind—those words with memories of the smoky aroma of cigar and whisky, and adoration from Pappous, the patriarch, who is now long gone.
The narrator on NPR was once that child.
So, this Fourth, in our own corner of the country, in this most cherished of holidays, the parade shall be attended, as it always is. Late in the evening a cigar shall be lit. Whisky poured, always a bit generously by the first born.
Etta James shall sing At Last.
Tucked in the shoulders of the Wasatch mountains, under the mighty starlit skies, with my people around me, I too shall speak those words “ah… what a country.”
