A SAFE AND SANE 4TH OF JULY

         The heat is getting to the crew. The dog and cat come out of the cellar only to plop themselves down in front of the fans that dot the house. Sunstroke seems to strike some clients. A tuba player mails me two years of taxes, while the ball busting attorney's long time female companion faxes information to prepare four years. Only I remain impervious to the weather.

         My 'Wind Machine' blows air on me. Today the currents are cooler than yesterday even though the temperature is hotter. I attribute this to the fact that I did a study in aerodynamics and decided today that the fan in the dining area should pull air from the cellar and push it toward the hallway where my office is. Yesterday that same fan sucked the air from the deck which is in the sun. Tonight I shall move the fan back to pull in the cooler air outside. I wonder if Wilbur Wright or Edward Boeing started this way.

         Just as Hank Thompson and His Brazos Valley Boys are finding out that God made Honky Tonk Angels, I finish the taxes of the Feeneys from Austin in the great state of Texas. I hit the print function and am starting to stand to get more ice for my water. I'm determined to come back and work on a short story based in cold New England in November, but then the phone rings. Could it be The New Yorker accepting my other short story? I walk to my bedroom and pick up the receiver.

         "If it's red like a lobster, it must be a lobster." It's Pam; she is on vacation with her daughter and grandchildren, camping near the sea shore. She tells me of her sunburn and then informs me that the temperature is 95 at the campgound. It is only 2:45 and she is done for the day. So are the batteries in her phone. It dies and I go back to the computer. "Four Walls" are closing in on Jim Reeves but not me. I check the weather on line. There is a "Heat Advisory." "If you must work outdoors, do so at or near sunset."

         "Wimps! What did we do years ago?" The cat, having come out of her lair, can't answer that question. I soak two kerchiefs, a red one and another with a western motif, wrap the former around my head and the latter over my neck, put on a cap and head for the garage to take the mower out into the furnace. I will finish the mowing I started Monday and resumed yesterday, near sunset. That time of day did a lot of good; I was out of the worst of the heat but into the worst of the mosquitoes and other jiggers.

         Today a hot breeze blows in my face as I push the mower downhill and is at my back going back up. The machine does not mind the heat, nor do I. I spend the last thirty minutes mowing east-west with the wind at the side. Back in the garage, I remove a tire to put air in it tonight. Tomorrow I will celebrate the Fourth using my brush cutter on the really tall stuff way in the back. It is after 4:30 now; I hang up one of the kerchiefs and resume my seat at the computer. I feel good; the heat hasn't affected me.

         When the phone rings, I am sure it is the Boston Globe accepting one of my monologues and proposing a column, but when I pick it up, no one is there. This happens again five minutes later. I am beginning to wonder if the phone actually did ring, when my business line lights up.

         "David Lidle here, talk to me."

         The call is from someone I never expected to ring this close to the holiday.

         "Sure Martha, you can hold your 4th of July picnic up here. I'll fax you directions for your guests. It can't be more than forty to fifty miles from your place in Connecticut.

         "No, I won't breathe a word to the TV stations or the press.

         "What's that? Oh, it's Hank Snow and his Rainbow Ranch Boys, I'll turn it down."

         "No I don't have any Faith Hill or Tug McGraw; I'll try to pick up a CD at Walmart tonight. By the way, the kitchen sink is half apart. You can only use one side, and not the side where the dishwasher empties, but I did get the new faucet installed."

         I don't need my earphones to hear what she says next.

         "Now don't get bitchy Martha.

         “You’re right, it’s probably the heat that makes you that way, and all the crapola coming down.”

         As I said this, an idea suddenly struck me.

         “I do have some lasagna in the freezer that’s just been waiting for just such an occasion.

         "Well, maybe not all of the guests want burgers, dogs or veggies off the grill. And, no I don't have food coloring to turn the potato salad red, white and blue and my napkins are cheap. Is that okay?

         "Great! The guests can play croquet and badminton out back. Nice genteel games! But I think the fireworks could scare the neighbors’ horse. Maybe you can burn some stock certificates? Who's coming anyway, Sammy? His family? Your broker?

         "I'm not being funny.

         "Martha, be good! At this late date, where else are you going to get a freshly cut lawn, mowed by yours truly, lots of bees, a lovely glider for swinging, a deck that can only be seen from an airplane and a genial host.

         "No, Martha, I'm the host. It's my house and I'm the genial one; you are the gracious lady who is raising funds for a charity, or I think that's what you said originally. By the way, which charity is it?

         "Okay, I'll see you at eleven. The guests will start coming at noon. And Martha, a Fourth of July picnic is a neat way to raise money for your defense fund."

Valatie July 3, 2002