The month of June was one that I will not aspire to repeat. Mother was in the ER two Sundays in a row and spent the rest of the month recuperating. She is much better and I am finally getting a good night's sleep again. I would not have made much sense trying to write something for my blog during the month of June.

Memories of the 4th of July when I was growing up in Colorado are vivid in my mind. The American Flag was flown from almost every house in our small town. The flag was put up at sunrise and taken down at sundown. I remember the lectures about patriotism we would receive from Dad or my grandfather, Poppo.

Mother and her friend, Gladys, would cook all day on the 3rd in order to have everything we needed for a "four-wheeling" picnic somewhere in the majestic Colorado Rockies. Dad and George (Gladys' husband) would make sure their "four-wheel drive pickups" were gassed and ready to take us on our adventure. My mother's parents would often join us on these outtings and my grandmother would be involved with the cooking.

Sometimes there were 8 children attending the festivities with our parents, but most of the time it was 6 or 7 as George and Gladys' girls were a bit older than I. A couple of times the 2 older girls and their husbands went with us. All the children were told to have coats in the pickup (yes, it did snow and get cold on the 4th in the Rockies, but not always). We grew up knowing that we were never to leave home without a jacket of some sort.

We would drive for a couple of hours until we found the perfect spot in the pines to spread our blankets and the sumptuous fare the ladies had prepared. After a leisurely lunch and a little nap for our parents and grandparents, we all hiked (most of the time) to an abandoned mine to see what was there. It amazes me now that Dad and George knew where all the mines were located. After an afternoon of fun in the sun we would head back home and enjoy a light supper.

We could hardly wait for it to get dark so we could set off fireworks in our front yard. Dad always made sure there were lots of noise makers and sparklers to satisfy our thirst for celebration. The finale' was the best...my dad and some of his buddies would meet at a designated place and load up their supplies and then head to one of the little hills that surrounded my hometown to put the 4th of July to bed with a BANG!!! I don't have a clue how much dynamite they set off, but it shook every window in town, made all the dogs howl and delighted us to no end. Mother and the other wives didn't think it was such a good idea and cringed, then prayed mightly after the blast. I think Mom and her friends were praying that no one got hurt AND that no one got arrested. the men always arrived back home in one piece. Oh what fond memories......