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Monday July 12, 2004 Volume VI Number 28
Proud American
by Ken Kemp
his year, we attended a good old American block party. To my complete surprise, there remain certain communities in California where Fourth of July fireworks are perfectly legal. What with all our raging fire-storms these past few years, one would think such activity would be forever banned. But not in our kids’ home-town.
Our daughter and son-in-law and grandson (with another due next week) live in a brand new community. Just five years ago, their home-site was a wide open field along the Interstate. Now, the old main East-West Boulevard is a freeway, cutting perpendicular across the Interstate, forming a new intersection and marking the location of a planned community with hundreds of new homes. Most of those homes are now occupied by young families; first time California homeowners staking a claim to their piece of the American dream. It’s an expansion of an old Inland Empire town that approved new development, new building codes, tract maps and shopping centers and an enlarged school district. But with all the disruption to the status quo, now paved over and gone forever, one thing the city fathers would not change: fireworks on the Fourth of July.
You can purchase as much firepower as you want on any street corner in town this time of year.
So we arrived early afternoon, and already you could hear the pops and the rat-a-tat-tat and the Piccolo Petes whistling like an incoming scud missile, and as evening settled in, a rocket would streak into the sky here then there, and just at the peak of its flight, explode into a spray of light, forming a globe of sparkling color, and the sun had yet to set. These were just the warm up.
We did the math not long ago, and we figured that in the next decade we expect there will be between twenty and thirty children born into the clan, and that doesn’t include Carolyn’s side of the family. It’ll be a string of showers and newborns and celebrations that will keep us all busy. I suppose we’ll need an on-line pictorial directory to keep all the names straight. I’ve already volunteered. So Kris and Ben’s little boy is blazing the trail as First Born, and oldest of the new generation. (Have I mentioned his name?)
Kenny’s life consists of a string of Firsts. (I imagine this will be the case for the rest of our lives – Kenny’s Firsts.) Last Fourth of July he was barely six months, so that one didn’t really count. This year, at eighteen months, he’s wide eyed and pointing and giggling and commenting in his own incomprehensible language. He lives for discovery. We had some wonderful invitations from good friends for the Fourth, but there was no place Carolyn and I would have been than there as witness to those young saucer-eyes taking in the explosive magic of America’s Independence Day – his First.
So we pulled up to their new home, and found a sign warning passers by that-children are at play on this cul-de-sac – use CAUTION. Balloons, red, white and blue, filled with helium, tethered to the signs, welcomed us to our kids’ new home street.
Right away you sensed it. These young families took a contagious kind of pride in their new homes. The little lawns manicured and deep green and flowers planted along the sidewalks, and banners waving at the entryways and WELCOME signs on the doors. One family rented one of those inflated castles, four column posts encasing a netted play area, turrets standing twenty feet tall, and the children in the neighborhood lined up at a platform for their turn to jump on a floor that behaved like a trampoline. The kids laughed and bounced and frolicked while dads aimed video cams at the action, and moms popped the flashes on digital cameras both preserving the moment for all time. Another family set up a ring toss and a brightly colored octopus with tentacles for targets and those who pitched the rings just right, catching the beast on one of his many extremities, would take home a prize. The asphalt was marked with white chalk; a large circle numbered for a cake walk and several hopscotch grids. Two custom Harley’s sat parked at the curb inviting the admiration of passers-by. Chrome pipes and valve covers and polished fuel tanks and calibrated instruments gleamed in the evening light and the two owners reclined nearby on lawn chairs, watching as guys tugged on the arms of their wives then pointed at the machines with a grin and a nod the expression of a wish – “Someday…” And the women shook their heads disapprovingly pointing the dad’s attention away from the bikes and back to the young children in tow. The owners of the motorcycles quietly observed the controversy sparked by their machines, and felt a degree of seditious pride just knowing that their coveted Harleys remained just out of reach for those young dads with a new set of priorities.
On the lawn next door to the Harleys was a canvas shelter providing shade for a monster sound system. This neighbor moonlights as a mobile disc jockey, and tonight, for his friends on the cul-de-sac, the system was available to provide a musical backdrop for all the patriotic festivities. It may have been a residential zone, but the electronic paraphernalia was stadium quality. The booming bass track rattled the windows. There was dancing in the streets. Dads bounced the rascals riding on their shoulders to the beat of the rock and roll, as did the moms holding yet another little one in their arms, hoping someday they will feel the beat on their own.
Old Glory waved in the evening breeze in front of every home.
It was an American Fourth of July as dads high-fived their neighbors and moms chattered with other moms up and down the street over the exploits of their growing children.
We were there, looking every bit like the visiting grandparents we were, following little Kenny with a video-cam, catching the squeals and the wonder in the eyes and walking down Gretchen Lane reaching way up to hold his daddy’s hand, remembering like it was yesterday when we were the mom and dad and ours were the toddlers wandering up and down the street, warmly greeted by supportive friends and neighbors.
And you somehow get this incontrovertible sense that the Fourth of July will never go away. It can’t. There’s just too much at stake.
There will always be another child for whom this whole thing is a First.
* * * * * * *
Pastor Gerry introduced John. We don’t even know, really, the extraordinary talent represented in this room on a typical Sunday morning, he said. Occasionally, we figure it out. This morning, the newest member of our worship team will favor us with a patriotic number that is sure to stir your heart.
John approached the mike. And as he did, the people began their applause. Behind him, a slide appeared on the screen with a large American flag, and behind it, the Manhattan skyline, a shot recorded before September 11, 2001. The twin towers of the World Trade Center stood tall, reminiscent of a more innocent era. Before our country awakened to the harsh realities of terror. When we believed somehow that two oceans provided us protection from the invasion of our enemies. Back when we weren’t even sure we had enemies.
In our church, we generally don’t get political. While our community maintains some regional homogeneity, we remain diverse. In our own sanctuary on a typical Sunday morning, a wide range of political views are represented. We believe that Jesus painted the political landscape with a pretty broad brush. None of us believe he would run for office… his mission transcended any particular legislative agenda.
But on this Fourth of July, Pastor Gerry thought it well to express thanks to God for the privilege of living in this great country, thanking God for the many who sacrificed for our freedoms, and to petition God to bless and protect our homeland, and to dedicate ourselves once again, to serving His purposes. To do so, he called on John. We all knew he possesses a commanding, energetic, distinctive voice – but none of us really understood his power.
The room filled with a full orchestra introduction, and against the image of the flag and New York City’s skyline, John began…
If tomorrow all the things were gone
I’ve worked for all my life
And I had to start again
With just my children and my wife
I thank the Lord above to be living here today,
cause the flag still stands for freedom
And they can’t take that away
And I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free
And I won’t forget the men who died who gave that life to me
And I’ll gladly stand up
Next to you and defend her still today
‘Cause there ain’t no don’t I love this land
God bless the USA
And the people began to clap. They cheered the performance. Tears fell, right there in the sanctuary. And when John finished… God Bless the USA!, one guy in the front stood to his feet applauding… and the others joined him. Soon the whole room stood tall, whoopin’ and whistlin’ and clapping. Right there in church. On Sunday morning, July 4th.
And somehow, for that moment in time, it fit. It’s not a matter of us believing that God is on our side, and against everyone else. It was a prayer of thanks to the God of the universe that our country is free – and we are free. That freedom came at a cost. We love this land. God – please – in your sovereign grace – bless this land.
* * * * * *
The evening wound down. The block party slowed, about eleven at night. The neighbors shot their own little grand finale fireworks, rockets illuminating the night sky – the rocket’s red glare, bombs bursting in air – gave proof through the night – that our flag was still there.
And Kenny, suffering from a long day of sensory overload, went limp in his mother’s arms and drifted off to sleep.
Down there, at the end of the cul-de-sac, a neighbor took the microphone from the DJ, the music went silent, and she made the speech she’d planned for weeks.
“I just want you all to know how much we love Gretchen Court.” Her voice cracked. This one was coming from the heart. “This is our home,” she said. “You are our neighbors – and our friends. We love raising our children right here on this street. You are so good to us – and to our family.”
Then she turned to the DJ and signaled him to cue up the final cut.
“This is a great street. A great town. And a GREAT country! GOD BLESS AMERICA!” she shouted.
And the music started.
If tomorrow all the things were gone
I’ve worked for all my life…
* * * * * *
It’s Monday morning. You are a leader.
Patriotism is more than a duty or obligation. When it’s genuine, it’s from the heart.
This year, you feel it, too.
Maybe you aren’t yet a grandparent. Watch the little boy reach up and grab his daddy’s hand. Know that there is something to teach. There’s a torch to pass on.
It’s neighbor helping neighbor. It’s taking pride in our homes. Our homeland.
It’s the responsibility that comes with freedom.
That star spangled banner still waves.
Posted in Valley Center, California
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2004
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