Well! July the Fourth, another year gone and a looking ahead to the next, what some forefather spoke or wrote to set us on a path of nationalistic righteousness and justice for all, etc. As if another ode to ye old nation on this the Fourth could enthuse even the most rabid audience. I’m 24 years old. The wisdom and remembrances I might bring to the table are but a whit compared to the inestimable value of a master wordsmith and his untotaled sum of wealth in sagey stories and humourous anecdotes.
I won’t even attempt it, lest I fall into the burnination that is the firecracker of youth, which, upon seeing a fuse, one will not hesitate apace, but proceed to vigourously “flick his Bic” until the steady hiss of yon brand fills the emptiness of a darkened backyard. Whereupon, to impress his friends (and possibly to reinvest himself with the notion that posession is 9/10 of the law–or is it ignorance is 9/10 of youth?), he will remain the sole holder of the fiery cracker until it explodes and tens of thousands of dollars are spent in reconstructive surgery and a hook to serve as a hand.
No, the Fourth should more appropriately be eulogized by august heads. I may offer a grain of thanks for living in a land of no-fault divorce and litigiously-minded folk of humble and high stature, but that would be perceived as sardonic and not true to the intent of a Fourth-related praise. And it would especially not fit, seeing as how I’ve neither received (nor given) a divorce nor been sued by a more socially aggressive member of the populace. There is one thing, however.
Grilled hamburgers are the shizzy, as a rap “artist” might opine, with a derivation of a swear word so obtuse and meaningless that it has become something else entirely. A New Beast. But back to burgers. And consonance, while we’re on it.
Something I could always count on the Fourth for was an outdoors grilling fiesta, the likes of which would attract endless numbers of skin-tearing gnats and mosquitos the size of Honda Civic engines. I loved the tangy smell of burning meat as marinaded juices ran to the center of the grill and Dad, the chef and cook extraordinaire, would send the holiday meat inside on a platter for the rest of us to gorge on for the remaining afternoon.
They always mention baseball and jazz as the two quintessential American creations. I’d like to offer the third: cookouts. Oh sure, I know, ancient Romanians were eating leek soup together when Vlad the Impaler attacked and literally staked their hearts (make my stake rare, please!), but I’m talking about THE Cookout, that event and sometime spectacle that both Yankees and Dixians can enjoy with equal fervor, that event that isn’t complete without relatives and neighbours and friends, a variation of Waldorf salad, and whiffleball. Most of all, I’m talking about burgers, flattened patties that shrink to the size of atoms when they’re done, swallowed by a bun that quickly loses all consistency when confronted with the melting flood of oh-so-wonderful grease and seasoned sauce.
The Fourth celebration isn’t so much about our country’s independence and 200 plus years of health care, welfare, and colonial wisdom that still shines, despite its many failures and weaknesses, in a world of relative darkness (politically speaking). It’s become a celebration of family and friends, of owning your own house and grill, of swimming and beer and volleyball and kids running around like the gnats. I suppose today, that’s sort of like independence. And burgers are the center, the foundation of the feast, so to speak. The turtle upon which the elephant holding the world stands. When burgers go, so does America.
When the founding fathers wrote that every man had equal claim to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, they might as well have written “and the consumption of ground beef flattened into a patty, cooked to perfection on an outdoor grilling device”, since it all boils down to the same God-given rights. And Americans can’t deny the wholesomeness and the flavour of a good grilled burger. Except for those godless philistines who don’t eat meat–God forgive them–they do not eat what they do not understand (I keed, I keed!).
Enjoy the Fourth. Eat a burger. Spread that American love.