Born On The Fourth of July
Marie Johnson BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not imagine what it is like to have a
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Copy of Born on the Fourth of July)
Copy of Born on the Fourth of July)
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Copy of Born on the Fourth of July)
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
Marie Johnson
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Unless your birthday is on Christmas Day, or falls on Easter Sunday, you can not
imagine what it is like to have a birthday on the Fourth of July. In the world of a small child, everything that took place on this day was to celebrate MY birthday. As far as I could tell, the big family picnic at Belle Isle, the cake with candles, fireworks, birthday presents and all the hoopla was about ME. A small child does not relate to (Independence Day, Birthday of the Nation, National Day etc.. How could a country have a birthday? Who would you give the presents to, and who was Yankee Doodle anyway?
All I knew is that everyone said to me, "Happy birthday." No one said, Happy Fourth of July", so why wasn't the celebration all for me?
We were such a large extended family planning the day ,so it didn't occur to me that we needed to invite any one else to have a birthday party celebration. Besides, the neighbors and friends on the block would always come to Belle Isle, a unique 985 acre urban park located in the middle of the Detroit River, to celebrate my birthday with the same enthusiasm. I found the fireworks not any more unusual than blowing out the candles on my birthday cake. It was not until my siblings arrived that I realized that their birthday parties were different, but I thought being the eldest, my party had to be special. It was, however, not until I went to school that I begin to sense that July 4th was not only about me. I still did not understand the meaning even with all those songs we learned in kindergarten, and I definitely did not understand who yankee doodle dandy was or why he went to London riding on a pony, or why he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
None of this made sense, but then a lot of things you learned in school did not make sense. Grandpa taught me that.
Whether it was my birthday party or not, what a grand day we always had . Those traditions, rituals and special times are emblazoned in memory, sharp visions returning again and again every Fourth of July. The day always began late after midnight on July 3rd. Someone, usually my uncles, were assigned to sleep at Belle Isle in order to hold a picnic table and barbecue grill for the next day. We had to be sure that we had a good spot for there were never enough tables and grills for all the people who wanted to come to my party. Early on the morning of July 4th, tons of delicious food was organized and packed up for the outing. We knew what the menu would be. It was always the same, barbecued spare ribs, delicious crispy fried chicken, the kind that you seasoned and shook in a bag of flour, the kind which you took in a shoebox when you traveled South past Cincinnati and were not allowed in the segregated dining cars, macaroni and cheese, potato salad , homemade rolls, sweet potato pie , lemonade and of course my delicious birthday cake, not the store bought kind, but the kind only Aunt Dessie could make using half a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. Nothing has changed. This menu is still required for a serious family picnic.
What was so great about this holiday, besides being my birthday, was that everyone was eager to fulfill their special roles which reinforced the powerful medium of tradition, ritual, and ceremony. Since both paternal and maternal grandparents, my parents and three uncles all lived together in one big house, it was necessary to distinquish them with special names.
My paternal grandmother, Beulah, whom we called mama ,and my maternal grandmother, Lottie whom we called Ma were in charge of the food preparation. I imagine they got up each day before dawn to begin cooking. Actually, I don't know when they got up or retired because I never saw them in bed. They were always consumed with chores in the house.
My uncles ,Joe Bob, Woodsie and Grady began early to scout out an area for a makeshift baseball diamond and then round up enough players to have a game. None of them were very athletic,but you wouldn't guess it from their enthusiasm and their bragging about being a member of the Brown Bombers, a local amateur baseball league financed by Joe Lewis, heavy weight boxing champion who lived in our neighborhood. No doubt, the beer stored in a big wash tub of ice heightened the bragging. Playing in a major, or minor league could only be a dream because of segregation in the sports field, but yet, they all had favorite players and listened avidly to the games. What would they think of the success and athleticism of black athletes today.?
My maternal grandfather, Joe, whom we called Daddy Lawrence, provided the entertainment. He played the fiddle, banjo and guitar. He was self-taught and was apparently quite popular playing for get togethers in former small community locales in the South. Actually, I think his repertoire consisted of three songs, "Little Church in the Vale", Little Brown Jug, and Red River Valley". At least, that's all I knew. That ice cold beer also seem to provide incentive for Daddy Lawrence to sing louder, and louder. I think you could hear him all across the island. As everyone moved quietly farther and farther from the sonorous refrains, it did not matter to him. He seemed content to entertain himself.
My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Crane, we called Bompa. He was our family griot and social critic. He held a running commentary on the news of the day, the state of world affairs, advice for some man who lived in a white house, the history of Belle Isle and Detroit, the battles between the French and Indians, the need to correct social injustices and what he hoped for the future. My grandma said some of his ranting was just tall tales, but I think he wanted us to know who we were and who we could become.
My parents, Daddy and Mother Dear, Henry and Louise, were in charge of the children.
They organized games, settle disputes and took us on the most wonderful explorations.
There were pony rides, visits to the aquarium, botanical gardens, the zoo and so much more. We loved most of all ,the smell of fresh grass, the flowers and the exotic birds, none of which could be experienced in our concrete, urban neighborhood.
When it was time to eat, we all reassembled rather quickly. The only thing we could do after the feast was to find a tree to lean on. It was time for rest, a nap, reflection. The baseball game resumed, mostly to work off the food. As the tub of beer dwindled, the disputes, tall tales and bragging grew louder. Grandma Lottie ,with her wonderful sense of timing and keen observation of the dwindling tub of beer, suddenly pulled out the birthday cake. When I blew out the candles, it signaled the end of the day for the children. No matter how hard we pleaded, we knew it was useless to protest and became resolved that we would soon be home ,getting ready for bed with a chance to watch the fireworks from the roof of the big house. Grandma Lottie insisted that we could not stay until dark because that's when the simps came out, and often fights began triggered by alcohol and exaggerated egos. She was usually right and the next day, there were all types of stories about what happened at the end of the day.
July 4 is one of my favorite holidays, mostly because of the memories. Many family traditions continue. My siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews have all become experts in continuing with the preparation of favorite family recipes and sharing family fun during many of the major holidays. However, so much has changed. Distance has eroded the opportunity to come together more often. A sense of community and neighborhood has given way to backyard gatherings on manicured lawns. The free spirit of childhood is tempered by safety issues and fear of those whom we perceive have divergent views. Our consumer society often requires pay for use of open spaces and urban parks. The convenience of fast food and expensive catering has become expedient for many gatherings.
I may be simply too nostalgic to accept that progress is relative. I miss the simple pleasures we may have lost. The Fourth of July is still my birthday, but I have to settle for cell phone calls, birthday cards sent on the internet, wired flowers. There are still parades, picnics, fireworks and hoopla, and I can smell food on backyard grills and watch baseball on HD big screen TV's, but I miss my birthday parties at Belle Isle, the rituals, traditions , memories, the intergenerational wisdom, and quality family relationships, but most of all I want my children and grandchildren to know what life was like in a kinder ,safer, more caring America.
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