HOLLY, CHRISTOPHER, AND NATHAN were up early the next morning. No surprise. Not much for three kids to do in a shared tent half the size of the one I had all to myself. But they were quieter than usual. No running wild, no shouting and squealing. What was going on? Nestled in my synthetic cocoon, I listened for clues. The words “fireworks” and “parade” drifted my way, reminding me of what day it was: The Fourth of July.
Firework shows always start just before dark and last into the forbidden hours of night. Magical patterns launch into the sky. Cylinders of yellow, orange, red, and green travel outward, explode, and then shower down like willow branches, or burst into chrysanthemum-like flowers and spheres of colored stars. Memories of the popping, the whistling, and the rumbling, along with the quiet energy of the kids’ excitement in the chilly morning air, caused the child in me to rejoice and the adult in me to mourn a deep loss. When was the last time I’d felt the emotional, almost magical, intensity of joy and excitement in a world otherwise focused on competition, achievement, and the drive to acquire?
I threw back the cover of my sleeping bag. Cold air latched on to me and wouldn’t let go. I pulled on my insulated clothing and prepared a pot of coffee on my camp stove, then tossed a handful of trail mix into my mouth, the burst of fruit and nut flavors lifting my mood.
“Marjorie,” Holly called out. “We’re going to a parade!”
I waved at her, but didn’t call back. The last thing I needed was to upset her parents.
“Holly, shut your trap, or the trip is off,” yelled a disgruntled male from inside his tent.
Holly giggled and waved at me. What a trooper.
I had made no plans for today, but with Anne around something was sure to come up.
As though conjured up by my thoughts, she walked up and said, “Hey sport.”
“How do you do that?” I asked. “I didn’t even hear you coming.”
Her earrings caught a ray of sunlight and sparkled like mini firecrackers. “I walked on tip-toes so I wouldn’t attract the kids’ attention.”
“You don’t like those cute little munchkins?”
Anne grimaced. “It’s their parents I prefer to avoid.”
“Yeah, they’re hard to warm up to.” I poured two mugs of coffee, never tiring of the joy I felt on smelling a fresh brew.
“Brock’s watching Adam,” Anne said, “which frees me up to show you something at the studio.”
I pictured the sculpture—abandoned on the turntable—and felt a knot in my chest.
“As long as we avoid Alvarado Street because of the upcoming parade, Monterey should still be relatively quiet.”
“The kids sure are excited,” I said, handing Anne her coffee. “Doesn’t that just bring it all back?”
“Don’t know about you,” Anne said after taking a long sip, “but I plan on being right there in the thick of things when the fireworks get started. Want to come along?”
“I don’t do crowds well.” I craved space. Heck, I needed solitary confinement.
“That’s part of the fun, silly. It wouldn’t be the same if we were the only ones there. Just think, it’s 2001, two hundred and twenty-five years since the adoption of the Declaration of Independence, a time to renew dedication to our principles, our liberty, and our God-given unalienable rights.”
“Okay, so it takes the collective energy and appreciation of a crowd to make the Fourth of July celebration what it is, but—”
“If you’re afraid you’ll get lost, I can tie a rope around your waist like Chango the wharf monkey and keep a tight grip on the other end.”
“Ha, ha.” I’d already been down that route with my ex-fiancé, which had led to the complete opposite of what our forefathers meant by liberty and independence.
~~~
The streets of Monterey were livelier than usual, but we made it to Anne’s studio in less than an hour. Anticipation of the upcoming festivities filled the air, and I couldn’t block its positive effect on my mood. I entered the workshop with a smile, no longer dreading what I might see.
Anne headed straight for the kiln, opened the door, and reached inside. “I decided to fire your piece anyway, just to see how bad it could be.”
When she withdrew my sculpture, I gasped. “What did you do to it?”
“Just fired it, sweetie.” She placed my handiwork on the turntable and gave it a spin. “It speaks, girl. I don’t know quite how, but I feel included in something, just short of bliss.”
My body heated up as if Anne had raised the room’s thermostat to ninety. The piece looked even more magnificent than had the original. There was no way I could’ve accomplished this on my own. Mud. Glaze. Heat. What made it so special?
“You’ve served as an instrument, my girl. Beyond the clay, behind the shape, texture, and color, something shines through... Radiantly.”
Thank goodness, I hadn’t painted it black.
“We can show it at the gallery after all,” Anne said, her face beaming.
“I don’t think so.”
Anne sighed, and for the life of me, I couldn’t understand my reluctance to share something I’d considered an abomination only minutes before. “It’s not for sale.”
“Who said anything about selling it?” Anne asked. “Two days ago, you were vehement about displaying one of Adam’s sculptures at the gallery, and now you’ve become as protective as a new mother.”
Mother; birth; possession; ownership. Something from deep inside of me, something unfamiliar and totally unexpected, had materialized in the form of a sculpture. Exposing that part of myself involved crossing a bridge from a life of certainty to one of uncertainty, reaction to action—and then burning the bridge behind me. My mother had tried to create the perfect world for me, but that kind of control wasn’t possible. I’d learned that much during my stay in Carmel Valley and continued to do so while here in Big Sur. The illusion of emotional safety blocked progress toward self-discovery. And that was no longer an option.
It was time to open a new door instead of staring longingly at an old one.
“If Adam can share a piece of himself, so can you,” Anne said.
Nothing outside of yourself, including a piece of glazed and fired clay, can give you what you think you’re missing. “It is inspiring.”
“It uplifts. It reaffirms. It arouses,” Anne said.
I shivered and pulled myself from its hold. “If Adam agrees to show one of his, then—”
“Three days won’t give him enough time to complete a sculpture using my reinforced clay,” Anne said, “but maybe he can get one done in time for the gallery showing in two weeks.”
It was time to give myself permission to change my life story. “Okay, if he’s in, I’m in.”
Even as I said it, sparks went off in my head like a premature Fourth of July fireworks display. In celebration or warning? Only time would tell.
~~~
The fireworks at the wharf had made me feel like a kid again. I’d cried out in excitement and celebration right along with Anne and the rest of the impassioned crowd, not only in celebration of the Independence of our great country— “Sovereignty of the people! Independence forever!” —but also in celebration of my expanding sense of freedom and independence. And now I was tired.
Too bad the Circus Campers weren’t.
Holly, Christopher, and Nathan were too wound up to sleep. Understandable. But their father’s behavior was less easy to comprehend—and forgive. Beer made him mean. He screamed at the kids and cussed at his wife, so often that I lost count.
Worry would haunt the little sleep I would get that night.