Social media can apply some pressure where all holidays are involved, but when it comes to the 4th of July, the sense of urgency to keep up with the masses might be intense for some of you fine folks. Let me come to you as a source of comfort. Let me talk to you as the girl who loves air conditioning, hates bug repellent, and darn near died at the wrong end of a Roman candle once upon a time. So you live in Appalachia, and you don't like the lake, but it's the 4th of July and you're desperate to find a ski rope and a tube. The search is over. It is o.k. It is so o.k. Join me. Be happy in your pajamas surrounded by modern comforts and technology. Let me explain.
Few daughters were ever born in the tri-state area with more of a solid assumption that she'd wiggle her toes in the waters of Lakeview Dock more so than me. For generations, my mom's family had made pilgrimages from Middlesboro to Lost Creek (now Sunset Bay) to camp, fish, and frolic during all summer holidays, with the 4th of July being the peak holiday of the summer season. I have photos of my momma at Eastern Kentucky University social events while she wore dresses with layers upon layers of ruffles, and then I have photos of her sitting in a boat with her dad, or my dad, reeling in a smallie. Either way, she could happily dance the night away in Richmond or fish until the sun came up in the Chapel. That gene skipped me. It actually hopped, skipped, and jumped me. Totally.
If you're struggling trying to find your place on this holiday, and you think that you're supposed to be on a boat in Norris, or any other boat for that matter, I am here to tell you it's o.k. if you're not. You don't have to rent a cabin. You don't have to drag a cooler from your car to the dock to the boat and back to the dock and back to your car and then forget to empty it at home in the carport so it smells like certain death the next day. You don't have to have a sun screen streaked body marked by mosquito bites that give out little doses of special love from the insect population. You don't have to haul every single condiment in your refrigerator to another county. You don't have to go to the grocery store and spend $500 on food when you couldn't afford $450 for a house rental at the beach for the very same time. You don't have to stop at every tent between the WalMarts to comparison shop for fireworks because you're literally going to set fire to money, and yet, for some reason, we (I include myself) are o.k. with that. You don't have to go out and order a monogrammed baseball hat because every female at the lake has one, and you don't have to pawn your high school class ring to buy a real YETI anything. You don't have to go search for the perfect watermelon. You don't have to search for wire coat hangers and spend half an afternoon making them perfect for roasting weenies, which means you have to let the coating burn off of them first. You don't have to throw a horse shoe, but then again, I don't think anyone does that anymore. You, my friend, can stay at home, in the comfort of your home, and celebrate the 4th of July without a sunburn, a mosquito bite, and a blister between your toes caused by flip flops you didn't like wearing in the first place. Snuggle up to technology. Watch the Boston Pops on the television. Comfort your pets as the neighbors blow up the hood. You, do not, in fact, have to go to the lake.
But, if you're at the lake this holiday season (especially with children), let me offer you some advice regarding how you make those memories stick. You take the kids to the dock and let them feed the ducks. Pick up a loaf of Wonder Bread (no other brand works). Spend the time tearing it into small pieces. Send your child to the ducks as if he/she were carrying the key to the universe. Sit down on the dock and observe. Watch your child care for another living creature. Take it in. The smell, the sound, the joy. Watch the child make sure every duck has a bite. That's what my parents did for me, and to this day, the lesson has stuck. Take care of everyone.
Next, teach them to respect the water. It's no joke. Lake water and swimming pool water are not the same. If you're going to grow up at the lake around here, you have to respect the water and flat out fear TVA. Then, you have to respect TWRA. You have to define a 10/40 line (whatever the numbers are) and know good and well you better not do anything to mess that up. If TVA has put signs where you've set up camp, you better respect them. Go take a peek in your baby book. Can you find your first fishing license? I bet you can.
Never walk on wood with bare feet. It may be sanded. It may be glazed. It may be both. Don't trust it. Wood that is exposed to the elements for the year of seasons will give you a splinter as a souvenir if you let it. Protect your feet.
Put Swiss Rolls in the refrigerator and break them out like caviar the next day. Little Debbie cakes on the mainland are just normal; but the same at the lake are a delicacy. Swiss Rolls out of a box are mundane, but break them out of a refrigerator, and you'll change the mood of your entire family.
Drive quickly by the stores that have inflatable toys hanging from the front entrance. My dad used to tell me that the Bible said we couldn't buy those, so I drove by many whales that I wanted to take to the Chapel. You better drive quickly by those retail outlets and distract your children or grandchildren otherwise by talking about Jonah and the Whale and could there be a whale at the lake?
Keep an old suitcase filled with children's books, Barbie dolls, and Matchbox cars at the place where you're staying on the lake. When kids show up, they'll know exactly where to go to get the good stuff. And, when the children grow up, and you're no longer there, they'll just have to open up the closet door, grab the handle of the suitcase, and take it home. At any time, they can open it and be greeted by a life time of memories provided by people who just wanted to give them some happy memories the summer in the mountains could offer.
Make sure you have white Styrofoam cups. Milk tastes different in those. When you wake up in the mornings and fix breakfast for small children at the lake, make sure they drink milk out of white Styrofoam cups. They'll never forget the taste or the smell, and they're guaranteed to remember the chef forever as a result.
Spend the money on fireworks. Just go ahead and do it. Teach daughters how to tape three bottle rockets together at once and shoot them from the top of a horse shoe pole instead of a bottle. Teach them how to throw jumping jacks in the water. Teach them how to light M-80s without looking like a wuss. Follow the directions on Roman Candles. Don't hold them in your hands. Really. Light up the sky, set the world on fire, and write your daughter's name while using a sparkler. She'll never forget it and she'll always be thankful. Make sure you spell it correctly. You know. There are two "n's" instead of one.
On the night of the 4th of July, sit outside and watch until the smoke clears off the water. Chase lightnin' bugs (we don't have fireflies here) and put them in Mason jars. Use a Case pocket knife to poke holes for air in the lid. Sit up late like you're waiting for Santa Claus. Carry the children to bed, or sleeping bag, or cot. Then, take your sun-kissed skin, your worn out bones, your empty pockets to the picnic table and recount the day's events with whomever is strong enough to stay awake with you.
Because, the next day, you have an obligation. Yes, you lake people. You must wake the children up, and you must send them out to pick up sticks. They have to pick up the trash from the fireworks. They have to pick up the sticks from the bottle rockets. They have to cry, moan, and whine about the whole process. But, be strong, and make them do it.
The time will come that they will either choose one of two paths in their adult lives. They'll either choose to drag little people to the lake and teach them the same principles of respecting our Appalachian holiday, or they'll choose to sit home and watch you post photos of everything they loved the most about the lake people they once knew.
No matter how much of a lake person you claim to be, there is one fact that separates us all. If you never had to leave the Chapel and drive half way to Maynardville to that little gray hotel on the right side of the road to use a pay phone, you never knew what it truly was to be roughing it during the 4th. God Bless the USA, and thank you, Jesus, for Verizon.
And, now, as we are set to celebrate the 4th of July in our great nation just a few minutes away, I know that I'm just not the lake person I was intended to be. I don't like bugs. I don't like mud. I don't sweat. The lake is intended for people who are a lot tougher than me, and I'm willing to let you all wear it out. Just make sure you post lots of photos for me while I happily relax at home while eating bon bons and watching Netflix.
