Eat, Drink, Merry, Blow Things Up, Get Married.

Today is “throw back Thursday” and tomorrow is July 4^th. So it seemed a fitting day to pull out this picture of Dad. Facebook tells me it is from 2008. Six years later, a lot of things have changed.

Dad loved the fourth. You got to blow things up. But it looked pretty, so people didn’t mind. It was also a time that people could gather and stuff themselves. What? The man liked his food. And it was also socially acceptable to participate in the gorging of oneself. ..what more could he ask for?

 The parties my parents threw when I was younger were incredible. Table upon tables of food, coolers of booze, punks lit for all the kids to set off smoke bombs, drunk people lighting off city firework display grade fireworks. …I’ll let you take a moment and think about that one. They got drunk, they blew shit up. And guess what? Everyone survived. I don’t even think we lost any limbs. I do recall a special aunt of mine being burned by a bumble bee firework. But nothing that some more booze couldn’t cure. (I’m kidding, I think she used actual medication. Think so, at least.)
July 4^th is one of the days that making noise and lighting things on fire makes you American. And boy was Dad American. He made American made steel. He drove American made cars. And he blew shit up like a good American would. But mainly he enjoyed his friends and family. He took pleasure in the freedom to do what he wanted. He reveled in the idea that we could all get together and eat, drink, and be merry. He took that a step further when he then married my mom on the 5^th of July in 1981. So the order then was eat, drink, be merry, get married.

My parents have always been a testament to the fact that love is patient and love is kind. It doesn’t mean that YOU are always patient. It doesn’t mean that the only words that ever leave your mouth are kind. But the act of loving people the way my parents loved each other is patient and kind. I saw my father attempt to finish building my mother the house she had always wanted before he got too sick. I saw my mother be kind enough to take care of my father when he became too sick to care for himself. Love is patient. Love is kind. And sometimes love is hell. And sometimes you do things for one another that you would never have wanted to do. But you do it because you love them. Because you care for them.  And because they let you blow shit up for years on end before that. (Thanks for letting Dad always be a big kid, Mom. It worked out for all of us!)

Unless we are under the assumption that I was born extremely premature, as I came along in December of 1981, I’d like to say I was the best witness to the marriage vows of my parents. I’m even in the pictures, if you look hard enough. This means I have spent years reminding my parents that their anniversary is really just a celebration of me. And that they should make “Thank you for bringing us together” cards at Hallmark. That way they could have bestowed upon me gifts and cards. If you’re listening, Hallmark, let me know. I have a few good ideas. I can be hired to freelance for a nominal fee.

These next few days will be hard. We probably won’t blow shit up. But we will remember how proud Dad was to fly his flag in this picture. And how he always made us laugh. Not always AT him, sometimes WITH him. Promise.  Seriously though – how American is a picture of a man flying a flag out of his truck, a thumbs up, and a backdrop of fields? You can almost hear the “And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free…” from the radio. (I’m kidding, he had great taste in music. It was probably something more akin to Crazy Train playing at the time.)

The most important thing my Dad ever taught me was that people fought for the freedom I have to be who I am. Unapologetically me. He would have never wanted anyone to change who I am. Or who you are. That’s why we have these freedoms. So we can fly our flags as high and as often as we want to. That was what the Fourth of July meant to Jim. Well, and that he could blow shit up and people would “ooh” and “ahh” instead of “OH! STOP!” I’m not sure which was more important to him. Heh.

Until next time – go out. Make memories. Gorge yourself. Hide behind the smoke bomb. Throw some poppers around. Make a lot of noise. Blow shit up. Celebrate all the moments. And cherish them all. But most importantly, don’t forget to fly your flag. Whatever flag that is. Fly it high and fly it proud. (Extra points if you yell ‘Merica! While doing so.)