THE BRIDGE PARTY

When we got married I made a deal with the groom: you quit smoking, and I’ll learn to play bridge. He quit many times, but each time he fell off the tobacco wagon, I figured I was off the hook. Our dental insurance covered the only bridges I ever came near.

Eventually he really did quit, and I––stonewalled. All the bridge players I know always, always, always say, “We just play for fun. It’s not that serious.”  Then they proceed to snarl their way through the game, kicking their partners under the table. They end up not speaking and get divorced. I’m more of a euchre girl. If you trump your partner’s ace, it’s justifiable homicide. Other than that, it’s fairly relaxed.

I never kept my end of the bargain. That creates some internal conflict, but I can live with it. Guilt and a shredded self-concept are preferable to learning how to play bridge.

I was on my way home from a trip last summer when my husband informed me there was going to be a neighborhood bridge party that very night. We don’t have a neighborhood. And the closest neighbors don’t have that telltale musty smuggy smell of the bridge player. And besides––he knows I can’t play bridge. I figured he was kidding.

There was a bridge party all right, but it was Bridge, Iowa County style. After a year out of commission, the bridge over the Black Diamond Road was finally going to open the next morning.

The bridge over Old Man's Creek––open at last

In a matter of minutes,  60 people from a 5 miles radius arrived for a bridge opening party. They came on bikes, in cars, and on 4X4s. They ranged from the wrinkled newborn to the wrinkled octogenarian.
Tailgates dropped and Weber cookers, 8 ft. tables, beer coolers, and chairs appeared. There was pea salad, glorified rice, 7 layer salad, bean dip, burgers, chicken, rolls and mostly there were pies oh my. It was wonderful to have the bridge open. It was inspiring to have the bridge open while eating cherry pie.

A realistic man, my husband gave me credit for being at a bridge party, and our long-standing deal was satisfied.

HALE BOPP

If you were banished to the prairie, do you think you’d miss the bright lights of the city? You need to know there are some hefty compensations out here. The sky is so dark that you feel as though you’re walking through the thick canopy of stars, not under it. The horizon is actually visible; unobstructed sunsets and sunrises are delivered daily.

To get us off to a very good start, the first year we lived here the Comet Hale-Bopp appeared at the end of our lane. (Ordinarily if the sky turns green, it’s not a good sign. We have special basements for that in the Midwest.) We had our own personal comet show. We set up two folding chairs in front of the garage doors and peered at the green sky for a couple of weeks. Hale Bopp was not subtle––no one ever said, “Hey, Clarice, you think that’s that comet thingee over there?”

If I had noticed a new comet, I’d have hesitated to mention it anyone. But Mr. Hale and Mr. Bopp did not hesitate when they spotted this beautiful display within the constellation Sagittarius. They reported it to the Central Bureau for Astronomical Telegrams. I am certain that would not have occurred to me, because I was unaware that there was a place to report “transient astronomical events.” This organization gathers such information and sends out telegrams!

It's a good thing I didn't know about the Central Bureau  other transient events appeared to me––that Coot, the crop-duster, a floater––they all look the same to me until they’re pretty darn close. Imagine the headline:  Williamsburg Woman reports duck to Central Bureau for Astronomical Telegrams.

Turns out Comet Hale Bopp was anything but a new comet; people in ancient Egypt set up their folding chairs in front of the Pyramids and watched it.

We all can be happy that Mr. Hale and Mr. Bopp didn’t hail from my hometown, a little German farming community in Michigan. Comet Reimenschneider-Eisenbeiser probably wouldn't have caught on. Now Comet Pickleseimer, that’s a different story,

To report your own transient astronomical events:

http://www.cbat.eps.harvard.edu/index.html

More on Comet Hale Bopp:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comet_Hale-Bopp

THE BOMBS BURSTING IN AIR

We started having Fourth of July parades in the early 70s when our children were toddlers. The neighborhood kids decorated Big Wheels and wore super-hero capes. When my husband added a margarita bar to the lemonade stand,  parents were overcome with patriotism, and the parade grew exponentially.

A bike parade around the block out here in the boonies would celebrate both July Fourth and Fifth, so we switched to a picnic. Over the years it turned into a huge all day and evening picnic. Our house, two decks, sun porch, and driveway are packed with friends and some people we haven't yet identified. One year we were gone, and some people came anyway.

The highlight of the July Fourth picnic is Bruce’s Fearsome Fireworks show. This man who lets everyone cut in line, who chats politely with robo-callers, is not the least bit worried about filling his trunk and back seat with totally illegal fireworks. He scans the mega-firework stores along I-94 in Indiana, scoping out who has the biggest inventory, who has the wildest explosives. Once inside, his inner-pyro takes over. I am surprised at the size and scope of explosives that they will sell to a senior citizen. These are not snakes or firecrackers; these are mortars that can bring down planes heading into Cedar Rapids International Airport, things that burst and then burst again, that squeal and shower sparks over the pond.

We have a 20-acre field that is perfect for setting up a major fireworks display. The crowd sits in the driveway at a theoretically safe distance. One thing about an Iowa field in July: it is tinder dry. It’s not quite as dry as our cedar shake roof, but dry nonetheless. I spend the day on the bucket brigade, carrying water to each little site he has selected.

I admit it: I am not a calm spectator. For example, I do not like the sight of Bruce and my nephew staring at the Whirling Spike of Death, their faces just a few feet away, trying to decide if the fuse is really lit.

Nor do I not like the 32” tall Annihilator Rocket being aimed at a row of my closest friends.

At our last Fourth of July party, Bruce set up a huge area packed with whizzers, bombers, zippers, and such for the finale. His display far outdoes most of the small towns around us. At least this time he put up a sheet of plywood so he could dive behind it after the fuses were lit. Thank goodness for that. 5 seconds. 10 seconds. 20 seconds. The crowd leans forward into the dark night. Then––and this is no surprise–– he cannot help himself. He simply must come around to see what’s taking so long. That’s exactly when the Iowa County Apocolypse occurs. Just in time, he dives like Mark Spitz, narrowly escaping a Crackling Fireball Colonoscopy, a procedure not covered by Medicare.

The Finale as I remember it

My voice echoes across the prairie. “Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuce!”

And from next to me there comes a little voice, full of indignity. My friend’s 6 year old, standing there with his hands on his hips, says, 

“He’s doing––

                           the best––

                                                that he can!”

A good point. Somehow a very frightening point, but a good one nonetheless.