Independence Night

The fourth of July has become the "Day After" for me. My eldest daughter Lennon was born of the third of July and consequently our Nation's birthday we celebrate by cleaning up the house and recovering from post-party trauma. We grown-ups are under a lot of pressure to put together a respectable Birthday party. Especially for little girls. In-laws and neighbors are in attendance and amid all the presents, cake, ice cream and friendly chat, you can feel the weight of their judgment. You're having plenty of fun and all, but your focus is to see that this thing comes off with no crying, hurt-feelings, embarrassing scenes, or weird vibes. Sure you work the room, eating, laughing, video taping, joking it up with the guests, but the whole time you're acutely aware of every social situation--ready to head-off any potential problem before it has the chance to spoil everything.

The typical 4th of July concerns (I hope the boat doesn't sink from the weight of the kegs) are alien to me. I live across from the park in a neighborhood that throws an annual 4th of July block-party and according to the "association manual" attendance is mandatory. For the past several years Independence Day has meant a pot-luck barbecue, where your best shot at a catching a buzz is if something goes haywire with the dry-ice root beer. Still I look forward to it. My neighbors are all pretty cool, and it's nice not to have to get the kids all dressed up and loaded in the car so you can all drive someplace that turns out to be more of a hassle than it's worth. This is one of the things about me that my wife really doesn't like at all. She loves to go places, I like to stay home. What are you gonna do--divorce?

As I mopped up the last of my potato salad with one of my neighbor's famous scones, my daughters began to clamor for what they call our "Mad Dash." It was something I did last year, and it was a huge hit with the girls. Just before the fireworks, as the twilight settled upon the happy, crackling festivities, I gathered up my girls in either arm, crossed the street to the park and made a bold stroll through the masses. The press of the crowd, the strobe of the Roman Candles, the tangy smoke from the amateur fireworks. Yeah baby. I cut a zig-zag swath through the merry revelers and my girls thought it was a huge gas. "Excuse me, sorry about that, we're just trying to pursue a little happiness, here--my bad."

Though nothing if not mindful of the whole Elizabeth Smart deal, the girls lobbied hard for an encore performance, and I succumbed to their damned irresistibility. How hard could it be to keep an eye on two pre-schoolers for 15 minutes--I won't let go of them, I didn't last year. Unfortunately this year's "mad dash" was not to be. I'd scarcely set foot on the grass before my girls spotted a big inflated playground with a slide. "Oh please Daddy, Daddy, please," The deal with this wobbling, plastic dream was to crawl through a hole on one side, and then climb up and slide out the other end. "Alright you got 4 crawls each--make it quick." Though my vigilant supervision of this activity was absolutely above reproach, it wasn't long before Lennon had vanished. Zoe, the outgoing one with absolutely no fear of anything, zipped right through the thing and as I was shuttling her back to the start, Lennon, the contemplative one, the one that's so much like her Daddy, spent her time hanging out inside and somehow managed to go up in smoke.

And to make matters just a little bit worse--not more than seconds after I realized Lennon was missing, the fireworks started. Bam, bam, k'bam! One minute I'm a contented man in the prime of his days and the next I'm like a shell-shocked refugee lost in a scene from a Viet Nam movie. People darting about frantically with glow-in-the dark necklaces--distorted sound-bites of laughter and squeals, the flash of explosives--Bam, bam, k'bam. Everything just melted into a nightmarish slow-motion blur like a Grateful Dead show on a mine field. Bam bam k'bam.

"Oh sweet Jesus please," I couldn't believe it. I can't even tell you what it feels like. It's a shock to the system that has to be right up there with being eaten alive by a bear.

It's funny how the world can turn from warm and festive to cold and sinister in a heartbeat. Suddenly everyone looked evil and suspicious--and they mocked me with their merry revelry. "La dee da dee da--we're having too much fun to worry about your ruined life. And Oh the images that play on your poor, poor mind--duct tape, pliers, a van half way to Mesquite. The only thing I was certain of was that I would never again close my eyes to sleep, unless I was somehow able to gather my daughter once again to my breast and return to my home with my little family in tact. All of which had to be accomplished on legs of putty and a badly paralyzed brain.

My initial attempts to find her were a textbook exercise in total stupidity. Seriously--which way are you supposed to run? I didn't know whether to piss myself or do the chicken dance. Before long my thoughts turned toward Help, "Help." I clutched Zoe tightly and sprinted across the street to enlist the aid of my neighbors.

My perceptions being what they were, for some reason it registered in my brain that none of my neighbors seemed to be terribly concerned about my plight, so I began screaming at them like a banshee and may have used a few colorful expressions to illustrate the gravity of the situation.

As I was dropping little Zoe into safe hands, I guess I didn't see that every able-bodied man and woman had already dashed past me in a sizeable search party. Instinctively I spun on my heel to run back to the park, and when I turned back to assess my support group, all I could see were people still sitting on white plastic chairs--seemingly indifferent to everything but the fireworks. As it turns out these were elderly folks not quite fit to serve, but I didn't recognize this in time to stop a crazed and disgraceful outburst that erased any doubt in their minds that they were living next to a nut. "What's the matter with you people?" Do I need to go over it again? "Lennon is missing, I think she may have been stolen--take the cotton out of your ears, for God's sake." Bewildered and convinced that I was in this alone I returned to the park.

Taking a tack through the crowd like a man possessed, I groped blindly for God knows what--a cop? A miracle? It turns out that a miracle was exactly what I found. I didn't' get more than 20 yards before I ran smack into my neighbor and new "personal hero," Cory Frost, who was carrying atop his shoulders my beloved first born daughter. He tipped her into my arms and I attached myself to her like a drowning man clutching the side of a small boat. This was a bear-hug that belied any notion of Independence. This was a Dependence Day hug. He'd found her trudging along with her fingers in her ears--and as it turns out, she was looking for me too. Whaddaya know?

I was so overcome by the prospect of my life being set back on it's relatively happy course, I'd forgotten all about the rest of my neighbors who were still frantically searching for my daughter. I returned to the park once again to round up the search-party and as I walked across the street with Bill Ennis, the last posse member, I apologized for making him miss the fireworks. "That's okay," he said, "they sounded pretty cool."

The happy ending notwithstanding, I'm not sure my nervous system is ever going to be quite the same. For about two hours I curled up on the floor in the fetal position and hummed "Come Come Ye Saints" in what thankfully turned out to be a successful effort to avoid an aneurism. I think what I experienced must have been similar to what happens to the brain when it goes a few minutes too long without oxygen. I think if it would have taken five more minutes to find Lennon, I'd be in therapy. Ten more and I'd be in diapers.

I was so relieved to have Lennon back in my possession that I couldn't bring myself to be angry with her--in fact she was angry with me. "I couldn't see your glasses," she complained. "so I slid down and tried to find you." As I carried her home amid all the "Oh my God's" and passionate "never-do-that-ever-agains," she was remarkably calm, she'd long since put the whole thing behind her. "Dad," she said, "it's the 4th of July, why aren't you happy?"