Two hundred-odd years ago, some guys in powdered wigs signed some stuff that said, "Hey, we're free, go to hell, England." The United States of America became a nation, and July 4th soon became known as Independence Day. The idea is that, once a year, we take a moment out of our day-to-day lives of watching TV, eating fast food, and shopping, and think about how stellar it is that we are a nation. We raise the flag and think about all the people that fought to make the United States "free." We get a day off from work. Sounds pretty good to me... Well, except for the fact that 99% of Americans seem to choose July 4th to go insane. When I was a kid, I loved the holiday. The picnics, the fireworks, playing with the cousins and getting stuck in trees you were specifically told not to climb. But, years later, I loathe it. I don't know if I've lost my childhood innocence completely, if I'm just overly disenfranchised about the whole thing, or if the holiday really has gotten worse. Maybe I've just heard one too many stories about people's houses burning down thanks to some illegal fireworks and the morons who lit them. Or perhaps I've just gotten sick of people wearing flags on their heads and acting stupid. I know I'm sick of firecrackers -- they start being lit in late June and continue well into the middle of July. And there's always some bonehead who's still having fun with them in September. Usually it's some idiot who shouldn't even be allowed out by himself, let alone be allowed anywhere near a box of matches. On July 4, 2004, I set out to find the true meaning of Independence Day. Kind of like the Peanuts do in that Charlie Brown Christmas special, only that's a different holiday of course. But it's the same issue, really. Christmas has become a mess of lights and fake Santas and half-off sales. In the TV special, Linus reminds us what Christmas is all about. So what is Independence Day all about? I needed to find out. First stop: Small Town, America. AKA Canby, Oregon. Population: 14,000, give or take. All right, so it isn't that "small"... I know there are towns out there with populations of, like, eight. But give me a break, I'm from a city with a population of half a million. 14,000 seems like the capacity of a shopping mall or something. Anyway, every year circa the fourth of July, Canby has this big deal thing called General Canby Days. I used to think that by "general" they meant, you know, "varied... miscellaneous..." but no. General Canby was a military guy, and now he is dead. He got a town named after him, though. General Canby Days includes a parade and a street fair, complete with games, food, and face painting. YAY FACE PAINTING! Here's a shot of the street fair. It surrounded three sides of a city park, and then some. You never know what oddities you might find at one of these, so it's always good to go slowly, act cool, and try to pretend like you really belong there and aren't some trespassing Portlander. It soon became clear that if I had really wanted to look like I fit in there, I should have worn a flag. Now, I'm not exactly knocking the idea of wearing the nation's colors on the anniverary of said nation's birth. It's patriotic, and hurray for that. But some people just go too far. It's one thing to dig into your closet on the morning of the 4th and go, "Hmmm, I need a red shirt to go with my jeans so I can look festive." It's quite another to go out and buy an entire ensemble that will have people mistaking you for the Cat in the Hat on Crack. I guess there's a rule that every good street fair should have kiddie games with crappy prizes. General Canby Days did not disappoint. For the smallest of tykes, there was a duck pond, a beanbag throw, and a Fishing Pond. There was also a game where you threw ping pong balls into cups in a kiddie pool. My brother and I spent $4 on that one and eventually won this... $4 for a piece of plastic filled with air. I'd complain about this, if not for the fact that a purchasing a bag of Lays potato chips will earn you basically the same thing. Only with crumbs. Lastly... for the sadistic at heart, there was the dunk tank... Somehow I don't get any satisfaction out of dunking total strangers. Imagine that. Perhaps if I was a resident of Canby, I would have known these kids and they would have known me because, just like on Cheers, everybody would have known my name and I would have felt special. But they didn't and I'm not special. And so I just watched. At roughly 2pm, the infamous parade began. People set up chairs along the route and watched it go by. Now, this is what I love about Canby. As we were walking towards the street fair, we saw that people had left their chairs sitting along the route. I remarked to my brother how adorable it was to see chairs just sitting there. People are so trusting in Canby. In Portland, if you want a seat for the Rose Festival parade, you have to park you chairs there three days before Parade Day, chain them all together with industrial-strength chain, chain yourself to the chairs, camp overnight on the street for three days, and hope for the best. I could get used to this friendly atmosphere. The parade itself wasn't too thrilling, but it wasn't without its charm. The parade included several fire trucks that had their sirens going, blasting each and every eardrum out of everyone within a three-mile radius. Throw in random honking sounds, and you've got it made. I can't imagine who was sitting in the cab, honking the damn horn like that, but I imagine it was either a small child or a person with severe hearing loss. Or intelligence loss. Whoever he was, he made a little girl cry. Ah, but Fire Moose Mascot to the rescue! I guess this robot is the telephone company's mascot or something...? I stared at this float for a long time, trying to see the deep, hidden meaning I was sure I was missing. Robot. Old telephone. 4th of July parade. Hmmm, cryptic. One thing that amazed me about General Canby Days was how many political messages there were everywhere. Some woman who wanted to be mayor or city commissioner or something had printed up balloons with her name on them and was having them passed out to small children. And this guy, Craig Roberts, even had his own float. In the friggin' parade! Much to my disappointment, the float did not include a loudspeaker that blared: Re-elect Sheriff Craig Roberts! Progress is his middle name! But I half expected it to. And that would have been really cool. No parade would be complete without a giant pumpkin. It was actually pretty impressive. I mean sure, they had the wrong holiday, but I think it had more to do with agricultural pride than anything else. Independence Day: Celebrating Americans' Freedom to Grow Hugeass Pumpkins. Was this the true meaning of Independence Day? Had I found enlightenment? Perhaps, but the day was still young. And within minutes, the parade was over and we high-tailed it back to Portland for what has become an annual tradition in my family... The 4th of July Barbecue/Potluck/Picnic/Family Reunion/Fireworks Extravaganza!!!! It's about the only time I get together with my mom's mother's family. We've gone nearly every year since I was a baby, and in the past, it's been a lot of fun. As a kid, I, along with my cousins, followed a routine. Now our traditions have been passed on to my cousins' kids. First things first, you haul out all your boxes of Pop-It/Whipper-Snappers and made a general mess on your great-uncle's driveway. When I was little, my older cousins shared their wisdom with us younger cousins about how you could put the Pop-Its between your fingers and set them off that way. Sure, it was slightly painful, but if you didn't do it, you were obviously a scaredy cat and could not be respected. This tradition I have refused to pass on to my cousins' kids, though I did show them how they could empty an entire box on the driveway and jump on the pile five or six times to make a really loud bang. The kids loved this; they thought I was being nice for sharing this tip with them. Actually, I was just trying to make them pop the things faster and get it over with so I wouldn't have to listen to the incessant noise anymore. It worked. By the time the last box of Pop-Its has made its mark on the driveway, most of the attendees had arrived. Since it was a potluck, everyone had brought something. There's none of that "Names beginning with A-L bring the dessert" crap in this family, so basically everybody brings whatever they want and usually there's a large food group imbalance, but nobody seems to care. This year there was way too much pie. Including this... At some point in the late 80's or early 90's, people started getting patriotic with their desserts. Over the years, I've seen Flag Cake, Flag Pie, Flag Cupcakes, and red-white-and-blue-layered Jell-O, which should be banned from picnics for all eternity. The pie, however, can stay. Yes, it's incredibly cheesy to decorate a pie with the nation's colors. But the one year nobody brought any flag foods, I kind of missed them. After consuming way too much food, we all usually sit around and chat while the little kids run around, oblivious to the fact that their stomachs shouldn't be able to handle such a routine. A while later, a volleyball game begins. Everyone over 55 stays put in their folding chairs, chatting about days gone by. At least once a year, a folding chair collapses with a person inside of it and they fall over, laugh at themselves, and get back up. It's become such a natural occurence on this holiday that we barely even think about it anymore. Before long, it is time for the fireworks to begin. Back in my day, we waited until it got semi-dark out before lighting off anything that sparkled... we'd do the smoke bombs and tanks during the day, but save the fun stuff for later. Not so with this new generation. By 8:30, there were fireworks going off and the sparklers came out. Sparklers. I swear these have changed since I was a kid. I seem to remember being able to run around with them for at least thirty seconds before they fizzled out. Now you're lucky if you get ten seconds. It becomes a game of grabbing a new sparkler, finding someone whose sparkler is still lit, asking them for a light, and running around like crazy for a few seconds before the sparkler fizzles out and is thrown into a big bucket of water. I don't get the appeal. I did when I was a kid, but now I just find sparklers to be useless. Yay, I get to run around the yard with a flaming hot stick! I'm still amused by glo-braceletes, though, so I guess I haven't completely lost my inner child. Pretty soon it was time for my uncle to dig out his box of illegal fireworks and wow the neighborhood. I was not in the mood for this. One year, a rogue firework went sideways and grazed my grandma's ear, causing hearing loss. Even so, the tradition continues. Instead of opting to witness another year of this insanity, I made my way home. All over Portland, people were blasting off their expensive pieces of crap, the crap they had to go to Washington to get. I used to think that if you saw someone using illegal fireworks, you could call 9-1-1 on them. Yesterday I learned that when those calls are made, the fire department goes to confiscate the fireworks. Then they laugh about it and take them home to their families and light them off. This may not be true for every fire department in America, but this anecdote is enough to piss me off. Back at home, I put in earplugs and tried desperately to comfort my cat, who was spazzing thanks to the noise outside. For four hours, the explosions continued. Then they stopped. Then, at 1 am, they started again. America the beautiful. Home of the free, the spendcrazy, and the mentally impaired. I spent four hours last night cursing Americans and their lack of regard. Except of course for the Canby folks who don't steal chairs. But other than them, I believe most people don't give a damn about the powdered wig guys and the freedoms we have here in America to grow large pumpkins whenever and wherever the hell we want. After an entire day of 4th of July insanity, I finally had an epiphany that didn't include pumpkins. A realization. An amazing idea. Next year, I'm leaving the country. Leave a message in the guestbook to comment on this article. :) (c)2004 AlligatorJuice.com