Free on the Fourth

It's a mad world. As of this writing, there's a governor who left his heart in Buenos Aires, a pop star who left his looks in the plastic surgeon's office and our kids, who left their sense of reality in their Gucci bags.

To escape, Grumps and I bagged it all and headed to the Fourth of July Concert in the Park, presented by the Conejo Recreation and Park District, for a little frivolity, with chardonnay and sunblock in hand.

We've got our priorities straight, dragging our victuals and patriotism to the park for activation.

And what of our patriotism? Ours developed in average American households, even though my mother always had a picture of her most unfavorite politician plastered over the toilet seat. Everything else was relatively normal, right down to the Velveeta cheese and the Dippitydoo.

Amidst the doo and the cheese, we developed a decent sense of what it was to be an American: memorized the preamble to the Constitution in the fifth grade, studied supply-side economics and even participated in supplying, voted for a few dirt bags along the way—but all in all, we developed a love and respect for our country.

Oh, we don't wear our patriotism on our sleeves. I suppose you could say we are quiet patriots, discounting my husband's snoring at night.

So on the Fourth of July we cruised like a couple of old gimpy dogs onto the lawn, loaded like two pack mules and wondering how those guys made it to the top of Mount Everest. Or across the Potomac.

We found a perfect spot to dump and download as the Sherwood Singers rehearsed.

"Give me some men who are

stouthearted men Who will fight for the right

they adore"

A cherubic toddler in a redand-white-striped jumpsuit greeted us, sucking down a blue snow cone and sinking his pudgy baby toes into the cool grass. In a flash, he traded the cone for a flag and waved it just the way his grandfather showed him.

Grumps uncorked the wine. I gingerly placed a hat the size of Alaska on my head. Through our Hubble-telescope sunglasses, we admired the stunning beauty of the setting—the graceful oaks, the rolling hills, the balmy, late afternoon breeze—and slowly inhaled the moment.

The unexpected magic of the moment.

No sparklers yet. No concert yet. We weren't evening feeling the vino. But we were feeling like Americans.

The singers concluded their rehearsal. "Shoulder to shoulder and bolder and bolder, They grow as they go to the fore"

Oh, yeah, baby. Time to dig into the basket for hummus. Or chocolate. Either works.

Within minutes, the Conejo Pops let it rip, led by their fearless conductor, Elmer Ramsey, and as part of their repertoire, they played the anthems for all branches of the military. "Over hill, over dale As we hit the dusty trail, And those caissons go rolling along." And the brave men who had served stood proudly as they heard their anthems. "From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli"

Our quiet patriotism was boiling over. Tears flooded our eyes, smearing the sunblock and compromising the chardonnay. My sombrero did nothing to hide the tears. Our hearts were consumed by the great fortune of living in liberty. "Anchors aweigh, my boys, anchors aweigh. Farewell to college joys, we ail at break of day-ay-ay-ay"

I thought about government of

he people, by the people, for the people . . . that it shall not perish

rom the earth. These men risked heir lives for us and our freedom.

Oh, somebody, please stop my

ears. My hormones come in a bottle and have made me into a

entimental sap. Stop the music. "Off we go into the wild blue yonder Climbing high into the sun"

Finally, the orchestra hands the performance off to the singers, who perform "The House I Live In," making us certifiable blubbering idiots. "What is America to me, a name, a map, or a flag I seea certain word, democracy, what is America to me"

Grumps and I take a deep breath, still slobbering like a couple of old bulldogs. There we were. Here we are. So proud to be Americans.

I wondered, if every person in the world was free to choose, why wouldn't you choose freedom?

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.