It’s almost the Fourth of July, but our family always celebrates on the Third of July. We gather together, usually at Mark and Adaire’s cottage, not necessarily to honor the pending anniversary of our country’s independence but rather to acknowledge more than one recent birthday and Father’s Day and – if we’ve been particularly remiss – even Mother’s Day.
We do it on July 3, because that really is Adaire’s actual birth day and because it’s often a long weekend and also the NYC contingent comes to town that time every year. So there’s plenty of reasons to party.
We just returned from this year’s event, a little sunburned and a lot of tired; and I can’t help but think how this annual celebration has grown over the past four of five years since its inception. Children have married, adding not only spouses but also in-laws to the gathering. What was once only a get-together for humans now includes a bevy of family dogs of all sizes and temperaments. And, this year, Greer is eight months pregnant; so you could say that the ages of the guests ranged from almost seventy (Earl) to almost born (Baby Haines).
We drank Sangria, ate burgers, held beanbag tosses, reprimanded the four-legged guests, and patted Greer’s stomach . . . with her permission. We teased and opened gifts and watched the Cubs lose in extra innings.
I don’t think the real meaning of the Fourth of July was even mentioned, but I’m sure the Founding Fathers (and Mothers) would have been pleased, had they been watching from above.
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