Over My Head

The lettuce was wilting at the Gorge-Grown farmers market the morning of the Fourth. The vendors were busy with spray bottles trying to revive their wares. I bought the last basket of blueberries from Alice Meyers and some edible pod peas from Norm Haight. Breakfast Sunday morning was sourdough waffles with blueberry compote. The sugar snap peas will go into an herb/penne pasta salad for lunch.
Mom and I went to the fairgrounds around 2:45 on the Fourth, prepared for the duration with lawnchairs, hats, books and knitting, plus a small cooler filled with sugar-free root beer, cheese and fruit (Mom is a diabetic and gets shaky sometimes). Almost no one was there for festivities supposedly starting at 3. We camped in the only shade we could find, just outside an orange taped-off area because of the fireworks.
I walked over to see what was happening in the horse arena, where the games were supposed to be. No one had signed up. John Reaney was pitching horseshoes, but there were no keg tossers, tug-of-war competitors, not even a water balloon tosser. The Dogzilla stand and Eagles burger booth were virtually deserted.
The wind blew the dedication page out of the book Mom was reading, "Pioneer Women." I had given it to my Kansas grandmother, and got it back after she died.
Just settling in, we were asked to move our outpost as they put the safety barrier back further.
After loading things back into the van, I thought I would try to get a photo. There were a few teens playing a desultory game of volleyball. Every one of their serves went offside.
I was hot. "Somebody's grumpy," Reaney observed as he acknowledged me while measuring a ringer with the only other horseshoe player.
Mom wanted to go for a drive. We wandered down to the waterfront to watch the kiteboarders, then decided to see what was happening in Cascade Locks. From the vantage point of the Bridge of the Gods we could see literally thousands of people. Almost none of them were actually from Cascade Locks. They were picnicking, playing guitars, parading their dogs and eating ice cream. Mom was intimidated by their numbers and decided to stay in the van and read her book.
I snapped a few pictures, then we went to dinner at the Charburger. Mom had the charbroiled salmon, likely from one of the Indian fish sellers set up in the parking lot under the bridge.
We crossed the bridge again. Music was underway in the covered area between the barns where the Bluegrass Festival is held. About 35 people were scattered in the stands and on folding chairs.
It was finally starting to cool off. We found another picnic table, this time closer to the water, with a row of poplars for shade. The wind was waning. We settled in to wait for the fireworks. I listened to KBOO on my old Walkman, which was broadcasting the Blues Festival live from the Portland waterfront. There were several acts from New Orleans, the final one Bonerama, with four trombonists playing pleasant cacaphony. It was the perfect accompaniment. At one point, I took off the headphones long enough to take a few pictures of the Jive Turkeys playing their set. Jackie Burns was looking hot (in the other sense) in a lowcut red dress, playing keyboards and singing like Chrissy Hynde.
More and more young families began arriving with their blankets and coolers, staking their claim to the goose poop-covered grass. Japanese men staying at Skamania Lodge asked if they could share our picnic table. Their English-speaking teen daughters arrived a little later.
The nearly full moon rose over the gorge walls, casting its rippling reflection over Rock Cove. People tried to capture it on their cell phones as youngsters ran in circles waving glow sticks and wearing glow halos.
No personal fireworks were allowed on the fairgrounds this year, unlike other years that occasionally resembled WWIII, but Rock Creek Park was literally ringed with displays that must have cost hundreds of dollars. Some were being set off on the waterfront. Others were behind us, erupting over the tops of rows of evergreen trees.
The Jive Turkeys were still playing around 10 p.m. when the real show began. It was one "ooh" and "aah" after another. We had a nearly front row seat. I got a crick in my neck, looking upward as each burst flowered overhead. The Japanese girls did a 'play by play,' saying, "hair" when glistening silver strands descended, or "Christmas," for the red and green showers. Then the fireworks began across the river in Cascade Locks. It was a rivalry of bombs bursting in air. The walls of the Columbia Gorge reverberated.
There were three bursts of simultaneous displays, which usually signal the finale, but everyone was pleasantly surprised as the show continued. Then the real finale began. The battery in my digital camera gave up the ghost, and I watched the show happening overhead with the elation of an 11-year-old.
Thank you. I am no longer grumpy.