Fourth of July Fizzle

Yesterday was cool and cloudy in Denver. The clouds hung heavy over the city, threatening rain. Ever hopeful, my parents, sister and her family, and Steve and I decided to head out to Englewood for a picnic and fireworks in the late afternoon. I spent an hour prepping lovely salads for us, and Steve cubed half a watermelon for us to share. We packed up the car and headed to my sister’s for a meetup at 4:30.

The sky opened in a slow drizzle as soon as we pulled in front of her house. We scurried inside and waited it out. And waited. And waited. After about an hour–around 5:30–someone decided we should chance it and head out. We were headed for the softball diamond where the fireworks show would be put on at 9:30.

Why anyone thought it would be fun to go sit in a park for 4 hours with nothing to do, I don’t know.

We “lucked” into a great parking spot at the park, or perhaps took the spot of some smarter person. Steve lugged the cooler, I the chairs and bag with pie and camera. We passed through slick lawns and a muddy underpass. The respite the weather had given us was short lived. We spotted my family sitting in a cluster in the middle of left field–coincidence? I think not.

Here’s my mother, huddling in a wheelchair and jacket with a plate on her lap. My dad sat catty-corner in his hooded track suit, with an umbrella over his head. My brother in law occuppied a low chair, his legs and feet bare in shorts. My sister had the tie of her hoodie cinched tight, and her daughter huddled under another umbrella on a blanket. The deviled eggs swam in rain water. Everyone looked like drowned rats.

“We’re here way too early!” Steve whispered to me as we set up camp. “If this wasn’t your family, and if I didn’t want them to like me, I wouldn’t be here.” Ever the joker, he went on to fake a “sandwich emergency” at work, trying to leave, and confirmed with my brother in law that they still had “fist love” (bumping fists) if he snuck out. He didn’t like my bean salad, but wolfed down the cold chicken and tossed salad. And pie. The half-apple/half-cherry pie was a big hit. The rain poured, then let up, poured and let up. We kept cracking up at our misery, collectively wondering what the hell we were doing sitting in the middle of a field in a rainstorm having a picnic.

“Oh look, a rainbow!” my mom reported. “Now, didn’t that just make all of this worth it?”

Silly, silly, mom. The temperature continued to drop. The wool blanket that warm Steve and my laps started to smell like wet dog. We chatted about our wedding, but fell into shivering silences. My dad finally gave the umbrella to my mom, joking he let her sit in the rain because she’d been nagging him. Ah, family.

At about 6:45, my dad, brother-in-law and niece went in search of a playground, and returned quickly to report that a darker storm cloud was heading our way. Steve and I muttered our thanks to the rain gods, because we could finally make our exit. We’d seen a great fireworks show on Friday night, so we didn’t mind missing out on the show last night.

The watermelon never made it out of the cooler. It sure did taste good sitting on our couch, watching a movie under a blanket and listening to the rain fall on our porch.