Fourth of July

I stood on the beach, surrounded by the footprints of a thousand long departed beings, and wondered who in the eons of history had stood there gazing at the unbroken horizon, their souls cleansed by the swooshing waves, the calling gulls, the chirruping crickets, the caressing breeze. Had Columbus? Had some Native American woman, gathering pebbles to warm in her fire? What pioneer had rinsed his skillet in the water, washed his work weary hands? Who's children had cavorted about on the beach, collecting shells and driftwood and feathers? What lonely young man had stood where I am standing, dreaming of home and family?



My deep reflection was disrupted by a loud droning noise. I glanced about to see where the lawn mower or tractor was, surprised that on a holiday when there are only two classes still being held and only 6 cars in the parking lot, someone should be working at such menial chores. I saw no one, but the drone got louder and louder. Suddenly from behind a far cliff, a bright red helicopter intruded on the placid scene. I watched it fly closer and closer until they were nearly overhead.



Instinctively, I waved. Likely the occupants did not see me. A few seconds later, the huge craft disappeared from view beyond the next cliff, the sound finally trailing off, interweaving with the rolling waves until it was lost from consciousness. I tore myself from the beach and headed for the loop path, reveling in the peace and quiet, quite unprepared for the booming profanity launched from the cliff high above me, cruelly raping the air and echoing with alacrity towards a dozen innocent watercrafts bobbing about on the horizon.



I snapped my head toward the sound to discover not the solemn statue of the disciples in the boat, but two men clad in shorts and bright red tee shirts, beer bellies hanging out, gesturing towards the various landmarks and chomping words like so many crunchy pretzels. Their mundane approach to such a sanctuary was as repulsive to me as the broken plastic coat hanger and the empty Gatorade bottle lying saucily on the sand smack dab in the middle of the wetlands sanctuary, the footprints of wicked defilers bearing silent testimony to their flagrant disregard for all that is respectful and caring of our world. No wonder the gulls are not in residence this morning. If my house had been broken into, I too would be afraid to be there.



It repulsed me, both these disruptions. How dare they? I glanced again towards the cliff top, but the intruders had disappeared. Good. Go away. Don't disturb this peace. I finally headed up the looping path, tearing myself away from the enticements of the swooshing waves and warm sun. As I neared the top of the bluff, I heard once again an irritating drone, growing annoyingly louder. I scanned the horizon for the helicopter, wondering if they were ferrying paying customers on holiday excursions of the lake. I could see no bright red machine. I glanced in every direction to no avail as the sound grew. Finally I saw a small powerboat making a beeline for shore, its motor grinding noisily through the churning water.



I wondered if the cannonball of profanity had hit their little craft and caused them to seek its source. Well, no matter. They finally turned aside, frightening a duck bobbing quietly near shore, misdirecting enemies from its little fledglings huddled in the drainage ditch nearby. May we celebrate our country in better ways elsewhere on this fourth of July.