“We were there…and we were square.”
As our family wended its way towards cherry blossoms and national icons in 1970, we first had to navigate the infamous Capital Beltway. My brother, a mini-me of our father with the same crew cut, intrepidly served as navigator, a daring feat for a second-grader. When we passed the city’s icons over and over again with no clear exit in sight, sometimes finding ourselves in Virginia as well as Maryland, we felt taunted by the holiday that might not be. Le panique having passed, working together, we eventually got out of the loop. Though some Americans were still reeling from the breakups of The Beatles and Diana Ross & The Supremes, Apollo 13 was safely home after a close call, so everything was possible.
After enjoying an early morning visit to the Lincoln Memorial and the cherry blossoms on the Tidal Basin, we walked up the hill on the National Mall towards the Washington Monument. Suddenly, a living tie-dye rainbow danced all around us, young people jubilantly carrying banners, chanting slogans, and looking like extras for a happier occasion than the protest in “Forrest Gump”. We had walked into the middle of one of the first Earth Day events. Impressively, the massive crowd had gathered pre-Twitter, and where they were from, who knew, but given the tee shirts, some had tumbled out of local college dorms. For a Junior Girl Scout, there were so many grooming revelations alone: face painting, uncombed hair, and braless-ness, but these were observations coming from someone who thought wild living was staying up all night at slumber parties with Flower Power sleeping bags and spinning Bobby Sherman 45s with girlfriends.
Our father, a Clint Eastwood look-a-like, walked with determination through the milling crowd. With a buzz cut amidst cascading manes, he was easy to follow, which all of us did, each politely repeating, “Excuse me” to the Gaia-revelers who did not see us. In the rosy hue of memory, when thinking of these Earth Day free spirits, I see an image of a young woman’s outstretched hand at the end of an innocent snap-the-whip as if inviting us to join.
Our grandfather, who lived with us, had opted to stay behind in the Garden State and work with the promise of a weekend visit with one of his sons. Coincidentally, our uncle lived near Freehold Raceway, but he was confident that his good looks and charm were always the draw. Our grandfather, a retired firefighter, was patriotic, but the ponies had a certain momentum that the once provincial D.C. of his youth lacked. He was, however, a charming paradox. Whenever asked for life advice, the racing fan playfully replied, “Don’t bet on the horses.” Much to our mother’s dismay, while other grandparents took their grandchildren to museums, concerts, and the theater, ours took us for schooling in applied math, though the main lesson was that he enjoyed spending time with us. *
Even on the road, our mother, a dutiful daughter, reminded my brother and me, “Don’t forget sugar for Grandpa”. This family tradition of bringing a few packets of sugar for Gramps evolved perhaps because he savored the luxuriant feeling of a restaurant while having coffee at home attired in what may now be referred to as pandemic chic. How this began may be as unanswerable as why some of us still wear make-up under facemasks.
Back home were also two sweet sisters who babysat us on occasion. The sisters’ parents had immigrated from Germany, and the young women sometimes impressed us by sharing a few sayings in German. The younger sister, who was delightful, was still in high school and immersed in homework and teen concerns. The older sister, who was in secretarial school and practiced her shorthand at night, seemed quite grown up and filled in if her younger sister was not free. Aside from being willing to play everything from Twister to Monopoly, she fascinated us with photos sent from her fiancé fighting in Vietnam to whom she wrote faithfully.
Lest sweet sisters and Earth Day revelers seem sent from central casting, like actors who do not want to be typecast, everyone wants and deserves appreciation for having depth. Our father with the buzz cut loved the arts and was a talented writer, especially gifted with descriptive writing. Earlier that April, we had had fun on his April Fool’s birthday, with our usual jokes, “You have ketchup on your tie,” phony bad grades, and plastic spiders in his food, etc.. Nothing could top the whimsy of the cosmos, however, that fated the birth of such a serious fellow on April 1st, but this was also the man who could juggle plates like a top “America’s Got Talent” contestant, a skill acquired from his days waiting tables in his beloved Pocono Mountains.
Though now might not be the time for jokes about the Earth’s revolutions, Mother Earth or “Terra Mater,” the Roman goddess, intrigued me, as did all mythology. My father once delighted me with a beautifully illustrated book of creation myths from around the world, now safely tucked away along with family photo albums as we sail the pandemic seas, brought home from a business trip to the Philippines. What I recall of these myths or faiths, for many of us, are their extraordinary commonalities.
Every culture has its beliefs, and collectively still, we share the American Dream. For anyone who is feeling pessimistic, our grandfather would wink and say, “Don’t bet on the horses.”
*From a review of past posts, this is not a repeat in the abundant Gramps repertoire, but my editor is on holiday. ⛵️☀️
(Sources: Memory lane, NASA, Wiki)
“Earth Day Collage” @ 2021 Kathleen Helen Levey. All rights reserved.
