Fireworks always remind me of driving to Okmulgee with my grandparents and brother to watch the 4th of July splendor. In my mind this is what we did every summer - a way I suppose of imagining sameness in my scattered tradition-less childhood. I love the 25 minute or so miracle in the sky that quiets chatter and commands awe. Okmulgee's a little far now so I only get to fireworks when they're near and hassle-free. 2009 was our year! With the fireworks staged on the Hudson in honor of the 400th year since its discovery by Henry Hudson, we were impelled to make the three-block trek.
With a little pluck, we managed to score a spot right on the riverfront. A posse of police informed us our little oasis would be under lockdown - no entry/no exit - and we gladly plopped down and began to nosh on our picnic snacks and await the night sky.
The first sign of festivity was ushered in with a water display by the fireboats against the backdrop of the sun setting over New Jersey. Then the Macy's barges came marching in: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6. All evenly spread before us.
At the stroke of 9:20 the lights came up: red, white, blue with touches of green, yellow and orange. "U.S.A." was shouted by the vodka-primed spectators behind us, patriotically punctuating the ooooh/ahhhhh spectacle of the sextet of synchronized dancing sparkles.
I lived in Princeton for 15 years. It's a place steeped in revolutionary and colonial history where change comes so slowly it seems like never. My favorite part of Princeton is my old route from my house on Moran Avenue through the University campus to the dinky train station en route to NYC. I retraced a section of it on this Sunday holiday morning and halted several times to ensconce myself in its stunning silence.
Palmer Square is the central meeting place in Princeton, and the setting for Shelaine's best teenage years. When I make my infrequent visits I notice change. Construction of new condominiums where the fabulous Writer's Block Garden was on display in 2004; the actual completion of the new arts council, now named the Paul Robeson Center and designed by local architect extraordinaire Michael Graves that managed to maneuver through at least a decade of bureaucratic wrangling; and the most devastating: Micawber Books now replaced by a lifeless fluorescent-filled shell (still a bookstore, but not the kind worth stepping into for an afternoon of mind-expansive discovery).
Bill has been tempting me for a visit with the promise of a new restaurant with a fabulous brunch. I love destination dining so hoped this would be the occasion. Alas, closed for the holiday weekend. So we settled in at Mediterra, just off Palmer Square, for an al fresco bite.
The reason for this particular foray was to see my other friend Bill tend bar in a new musical at the Hopewell Dessert Theater. At this day's matinee the theater far-surpassed the dessert. And who knew that when Bill shed his bartender garb he'd be dressed like my twin! Such are the delights and surprises of a day on the old home front.
