Last night was Rockville's fireworks. Rockville is the next town, and towns, here in New England, are the basic unit of --well, anything. The county, for instance, is subsidiary to the town, even though Rockville is the county seat. There are no such things as townships. So the next town probably doesn't even have a clear border.
Rockville, however, is considered "the ghetto". It's a fading mill town, one working mill left, out of at last a half a dozen. (They sometimes burn down rather spectacularly. The states all have programs in place to use the existing buildings for something useful. They are, after all, a part of the history and the landscape of New England). However, for a fading mill town, they have a fairly wonderful fireworks display. They fundraise for it all year long. Not only do they have fireworks, they have live music, and not any old live music, either, they have our little corner of the world's answer to the Boston Pops. The Rockville Community Orchestra, and the Windham Concert Band joined forces last night for a free concert. I was extremely hormonal in any case, plus the good kind of patriotism makes me cry, so I spent a large part of last night sort of dripping. (Kind of like when the boxers cry when they play the National Anthem at the Olympics. Big tough guys, sobbing away to "...and the rockets' red glare....").
The first thing that struck me was that here were all these people, giving their time and their talent, all for a love of music. They weren't good enough to make a living at it, they probably didn't major in it, but somewhere along the line, someone instilled a love of music in them that took root enough that here, years, later, they were sitting on folding chairs, on a blocked-off Main Street, playing Sousa marches. For the love of music, for the sheer love of music.
And they are talented musicians! They play a wide range of music, from patriotic standards, to just plain standards, to Motown (!) to classical. The patriotic medley was stirring and touching. The Motown medley was not only not embarrassing, it was downright good. And their performance of the "1812 Overture" was as stirring as any I have ever heard.
While the music was playing, I watched people. (When I wasn't enjoying the sheer novelty of sitting in my folding chair where I had been jockeying for a lane position not five hours ago). To make this fit in this blog at least a little bit, I will say that I looked particularly at the women.
The women of Rockville are, to be honest, a not an especially edifying sight. They have the body type of the lower middle class, for want of a better term. I saw an awful lot of them go by. I'm not sure what conspires to get them that way--but their posture is poor, they are mostly overweight, and their entire presence more or less telegraphs a lacking sense of self-esteem. My daughters commented on the depressing number of young girls with babies. My guess is that were looking at different parts of the same cycle. Lacking self-esteem, coupled with America's curious attitudes toward birth control, got them pregnant at an early age. Lower socio-economic status didn't entitle them to the niceties an older, better-educated mother might have had. You can be sure these girls are not going to Mommy and Me exercise classes. Low-paying jobs, all they can get, with little education and saddled with one or more children, are not conducive to stellar nutrition; see also the lacking education on that point. So there they are: bodies sprung by having too many children too young, unable, really to improve on the situation, whether because of lack of money, lack of time, or lack of inclination. (Fried dough tastes good. Dunkin Donuts donuts are relatively inexpensive, as is McDonalds).
However, having said that, other parts of my people-watching made me happy. I think it's partly because people like to hear things go bang, but I love the number of people who turn out for fireworks displays, and the variety. You get a real cross-section. Old people, young people, every shade of skin that exists on the earth, and just about every ethnicity and national origin. I got a particular bang out of the lady in a sari, nose ring and nine pounds of high-karat gold jewelry, happily tapping her foot to the Marine Hymn. Or, the tall young man (a father far too soon, too, but one who was involved and participating) carrying the little girl, who could only have been his--just as tall and lanky as Daddy, fitting together like a hand in a glove. The young Sikh boy, about 14, wearing a full turban, ushering along his two little brothers, little round pre-turban knots on their heads, with his clearly Hispanic friend for company.
It was one of those nights where I love America. I love the national holidays the best, really, because as nice as Christmas and Easter are, they leave someone out. Fourth of July? Watch fireworks. Eat the summer food of your choice. Include everyone. Thank the people who fight for freedom, even if they are fighting a misguided war--they didn't start it. Think about freedom. Think about the idealists who went to Philadelphia in July to write a document about freedom and the rights of mankind. Be glad that even if things aren't perfect, we're allowed (in spite of the Patriot Act--it profanes the name of patriot, and those men who were in Philly all those years ago are whirling in their graves) to talk about it. Eat ice cream!
I thought about all the places I've watched fireworks. My first ones were in the Washington DC area, and I'm willing to bet we saw the ones from the National Mall, from some other vantage point. Fireworks in north Germany, on an Army base. Fireworks at a golf course. Fireworks seen against the backdrop of the World Trade Center (you could see the Twin Towers from the front windows of my apartment in Brooklyn). Fireworks in Hartford, in Springfield, Mass (viewed from a bridge over the Connecticut River). Fireworks in Charleston, WV. On a flatbed truck, watching them being set off over a Louisiana bayou. The 4th of July in Munich, at a friends' apartment--four sparklers, and three of us sang "The Star-Spangled Banner" and were happy to do it. In Vermont, in the field behind my husband's aunt's house, against the Green Mountains. I've also been to a Guy Fawke's celebration, stood in a damp English field on November 5, and thought how the Americans definitely chose the right time of the year for standing around at night shooting off fireworks!
Well, anyway, that's my take on the Fourth. Not a lot to do with losing weight, or body image, or anything like that, but really, the biggest thing on my mind at the moment.
