Kehoe Rodgers: As always, fingers crossed this Fourth of July
Ah, Fourth of the July – for most people a day of celebrating – enjoying family, friends, food and fireworks.
For me, eh.
Actually, the holiday doesn’t cause me as much anxiety as it used to. Maybe the curse was lifted, or that annual black cloud moved on to hang over some other poor unsuspecting soul. Whatever the reason – dear God, I hope I’m not jinxing myself – the angst of July 4th hasn’t paid me a visit in several years.
It all started when I was about 4 – really, it could have started before that but I have no memory. And since my mom never remembered the slew of bad luck I endured on July 4 over the course of my childhood, chances are good she wouldn’t have remembered either. My mother’s group of friends, about 5 of them, thought it would be fun to get all the families together for a Fourth of July picnic at one of their homes. On paper, a terrific idea with the potential for tons of fun, activities and family bonding with parents and kids.
The reality of it? Let’s just say Norman Rockwell would have gathered up his paints and easel and sprinted out of there as fast as he could.
So with five or six families – with the smallest family having 3 kids, the average being five kids and the host family with 10 – well, that’s a pretty clear picture, isn’t it? Fortunately, the host family had some real yardage, so kids could get lost for hours while the adults drank beer and played poker.
Remember, this was the early-to-mid-1960s, so parental supervision was basically non-existent. And considering the kids and what they were capable of, it’s understandable our moms and dads encouraged our “independence.”
So, as an adorable 4-year old and not yet confident enough to venture out on my own, I tried to stay close to my mom and dad. Which I’m sure they very much appreciated. But midway through the day, my stomach started rumbling – but I soldiered on. I wanted to play with those sparklers. Now, I don’t know if the stomach bug that reared its ugly head caused me to let the sparkler slip in my hand, resulting in a burned and scarred hand, but no matter, I wasn’t so adorable at the particular moment.
So my dad bit the bullet and took me home. The dining/poker table was shy one player after that.
The next year, putting that unfortunate moment behind me, I happily jumped out of the car when we got to the Bottos. I was convinced this would be the best day ever. I was going to spend time with the “almost-like-sisters” McTamney girls, eat, play games and roast marshmallows.
In hindsight, I should have steered clear of those marshmallows and that charcoal grill.
While the following scene is somewhat disputed by Paul Botto, I believe it to be accurate. We were roasting marshmallows, and Paul’s was on fire. Seriously, there were flaming shooting from it. He was showing it to me, getting it a little too close to my face for my liking. So I pushed it back away from me. But the stick broke and that damn flaming marshmallow went right into Paul’s eye.
Now, I know, that’s really Paul’s bad luck, not mine. And I would agree, if I hadn’t fallen into Botto’s cesspool the following year, thereby confirming my bad-luck suspicions. Fortunately, Paul was not seriously injured. We ran into each several years ago, and I apologized again because I still felt terrible about it – and truth be told it was a gruesome sight. But, as maturity seeped out of me for just a second, I told him it was his fault anyway. He said no way, that it was my fault. And back-and-forth it went. Nice to know we can still behave like kids when we need to.
So, it became something I could count on – bad things happening on the Fourth of July. Some incidents were minor enough that, under normal circumstances, I would just shrug them off. But given my track record, even a splinter was cause for me to yell, “See! The Fourth of July hates me.” Which actually did happen. But this splinter? It was under my finger nail. Think about that for just for a second – a splinter UNDER my nail. How does that even happen? I was putting the chairs back into our lock at Mermaid Swim Club, for crying out loud. My husband had to put a needle under my fingernail (it was on my right hand) and dig out that splinter. I don’t know who was more traumatized – him or me.
Prior to that splinter, I was hoping that once I got married and moved to a new house that the Fourth of July bad luck would stay on Pine Street. But no, it made the move with me. The first hint of confirmation was when I got salmonella poisoning after stagnant water splashed in my face and I was sick for a week. But that splinter sealed the deal.
After that stinking splinter, I tried to fly under the radar on the Fourth. We’d have family picnics because we could see the fireworks from my backyard – I steered clear of any knives, the grill and did my best to avoid steps (or walking). So I pretty much sat in a chair and didn’t move. And kept my fingers crossed the whole day in an attempt to ward off that bad luck. I felt safer that way.
But as the years rolled on, bad things happened less and less. I got smart at not taunting the Fourth of July by working. When I was in sports we each had to work a few holidays, and I took Independence Day as one because, well, I felt safe tucked away in my corner of the sports department.
Now that I’m in news (and, sadly, the “last man standing”) I’ll be working this Fourth of July. But now, Norristown on the Fourth of July has become one of my favorite days for one simple reason – unity.
Lots of people talk trash about Norristown, including the residents. And while some criticisms are justified (unfortunately), what’s often overlooked, or maybe even taken for granted, are the incredibly good, decent people who make up the majority of this town. And those good, decent people who want their town to be a safe haven for their kids, families, friends – come from all walks of life and ethnicities.
And that, to me, is what makes Norristown such a great place. For the most part, and there are, of course, exceptions, this is a town that embraces differences.
I dare not say the Fourth of July is a safe day for me – but I’m hoping that it had its fun with me, and now it’s moved on. Since I’ll be working I’ll take a walk to the parade to get a few photos of the festivities. It’s just going to be difficult to hold the camera steady while my fingers are crossed.
Contact Cheryl Kehoe Rodgers at crodgers@timesherald.com.
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