My life has become the plot of a cheesy science fiction movie. You know the one where, in the middle of a heat wave, a throwaway character says this can’t last forever, and, sadly, the opposite turns out to be prophetic. Cue the title.

Last night I was a pool of sweat. On the way back from the kitchen, I found a puzzle piece on the floor in the hall. It had hitched a ride on my arm.

The dogs are still asleep sprawled out on the floor. I was abruptly awakened when my legs slid off the couch. I had become one of those balance toys where the toy’s ends flip.

I heard a dog yipping for a while this morning. I think it was my neighbor’s very little dog. It’s yipping could have been a chair creaking.

If this heat is a preview of hell, I am going to change my ways.

My life has become a metaphor.

I have many memories of July 4th. One of my favorites was from when I was a kid. From my backyard steps, I could see the fireworks, from the next town over, break high in the sky. I oohed and ahed. One of my neighbors heard me and invited me inside for a drink. He had been a friend of my mother’s since high school. His wife and I sat around their kitchen table and chatted. They drank beer. I drank root beer. I felt special.

Every July 4th I marched with my drill team in the Wakefield parade. My father’s friend had a house with a huge porch along the parade route. He hosted a party every year. When I’d march by, the whole crowd, watching the parade from the porch, yelled my name. I was both embarrassed and pleased.

My grossest memory is from a cold July 4th. I was wearing a sweatshirt, and we were sitting around the fire drinking. I picked up my ubiquitous red cup and a slug was riding along the side. The crowd ughed, and I dropped my cup.

The heat wave will begin to break tonight starting at 8. Tomorrow will be in the low 80’s. That, according to the weatherman, will bring relief. We are in such a state that relief is the low 80’s.

A bit from one of my traditional July 4th posts:

On July 3rd 1776, John Adams wrote a letter to his wife Abigail. In it, he predicted the celebrations for American Independence Day, including the parties:

“It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this time forward evermore.” 

I know some people complain that the meaning of the day is lost in the barbecues and the fireworks, but they have forgotten John Adams’ hope. We are honoring the day exactly as he wished. Flags are waving everywhere. Families get together to celebrate and to break bread, albeit hot dog rolls. Fireworks illuminate the sky. Baseball is played on small town fields and in huge stadiums. Drums beat the cadence in parades. We sing rousing songs celebrating America and our freedom. We also sing heartfelt songs about what America means to us. We are many sorts of people, we Americans. We don’t all look the same, practice the same religion, eat the same foods or dress in the same way, but we all celebrate today.

You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4th, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten but it is patriotism. Happy birthday, America, from all us Americans.

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