A Real Live Nephew of My Uncle Sam

And so it's the 4th of July, and what have you done? I'm sure I have an Uncle Sam if I look back a genertion or so -- Sam Kessler, or maybe Sam Goldsmith. As a kid, July 4 was my favorite holiday -- up there with Halloween and New Year's Eve. As a young boy it meant a picnic at Salisbury (later renamed Eisenhower) Park, with my parents. Some years we brought my brother in law's siblings Kathy and Michael, and ate watermelon and sandwiches while we waited for the fireworks. The reports always seemed so loud and booming -- I liked them more than the exploding colors, although it was always great to hear my Dad's running commentary on those: "Look! Spaghetti!" As I grew, the holiday meant a month's preparation, as my idiot teem friends and I gathered firecrackers and bottle rockets from illegal sources, and methodically, like young Al Queda, removed the gunpowder from them to make even larger bombs. It's really lucky none of us were killed or maimed worse than the lingering hearing loss my friend Eric has, the result of a cherry bomb that Fitz forgot to throw. And the summer of being 16 and 17 - well - that was a highlight. With fake IDs we went to Beefsteak Charlies in the local small mall, and drank all the beer, wine, and sangria we could, before walking to Eisenhower Park (a healthy 5 miles or so) in search of ladies from other high schools. I only had one sad July 4th -- the year after my father died. I took Mom to FAU in Boca for the fireworks, and as they exploded she looked so small and lost. She'd recover, though, and go on to have another 30 years, 26 of which were awesome. But I learned the rockets and reports could be symbols of loss. The summer of '84 was an awesome 4th. Miami Beach planned a huge party -- the Beach Boys were playing, AFTER they played the D. C. Mall. We spent the night before in Wifey's friend's Yvonne's South Beach apartment -- a time when South Beach wasn't ultra gentrified yet. We got to the beach early -- probably 11 or so, in order to stake out a great spot. It was Wifey, Yvonne, and her friend Jeannette, and Jeannette's cousin Dennis, a great Brooklyn guy, somehow found us, without the aid of cell phones. We drank all day in the hear of the sun, and by the time the Beach Boys came on, I barely remember. But, they had guests: John Lodge and Justin Hayward of the Moody Blues, and Ringo Starr. Jeannette, and enormous Beatles fan, even to this day, ran like a possessed woman to the stage -- and there were easily 200,000 people there. After the show and fireworks, my reptilian, drunk brain told me to simply make my way to the ocean and sleep right next to it. Wifey rescued me -- taking me by the hand and leading me back to Yvonne's apartment, where we waited for the traffic to lessen, and then she drove us in my '82 Buick Century back to Kendall. The years the Ds were young meant the Biltmore in the Gables. We'd get a room for the weekend, and the Ds savored it -- exploring the historic place, supposedly haunted. They halted the shows for a few years to let the golf course grass recover, but have them again. Maybe we'll take grandkids someday... Today, Wifey and I are headed to the Grove -- a night at the Ritz there, where we spent one T Day. We plan to relax at the pool and grounds, and then wander off campus for dinner -- maybe Scotty's -- maybe Chart House -- and D1 and some friends may meet us. Sunday D1 is using the $100 resort credit for a massage, and we'll all have breakfast. I'm thankful relatives at the turn of the 20th Century, including my grandparents, saw fit to leave the Old Country for this one. and give us lives beyond their wildest dreams. Feliz Cumpleanos, US. Happy to celebrate with you...