July 4 still feels empty with Mom 2.0 gone
After decades of backyard feasts, world-class potato salad, and homemade ice cream, I still feel lost without her when Independence Day arives.
The Fourth of July was Mom 2.0’s big holiday.
She did most holidays big: Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.
Heck, she used to make candy baskets for kids on May Day.
But on Independence Day, she shone brighter than any fireworks display. My folks took the Fourth of July so seriously that they timed the planting of their flowers so they would be in maximum bloom by the holiday.
Parents 2.0 gathered both sides of the family — and sundry neighbors and friends — at their stately East Des Moines manor and served food.
Oh, what a menu it was: at least two kinds of meat, relishes, watermelon, mixed fruits, scalloped potatoes, scalloped corn, Aunt Juli’s bean dip, chips of all forms and varieties, and a table full of desserts contributed by guests.
And, of course, there was Mom 2.0’s world-class potato salad. She typically served potato salad twice a year: July 4 and Christmas Eve. There were some in the family who looked forward to it more than presents.
The whole event finished with homemade ice cream — two flavors, a pineapple sherbet and either vanilla or strawberry. My friend Rebecca, who attended just one of the July 4 celebrations, says she thinks about that ice cream every Fourth of July.
Dad 2.0 put patriotic marching music on the speakers in the garage. People sat, ate, and visited. That last bit, the visiting, was the magic of the thing. People just talked.
People don’t do that anymore. They text. They send memes. They post things on social media and group chats. But just taking a couple of hours on a hot summer afternoon to enjoy fellowship? That’s rare — rarer than it should be.
Mom 2.0 loved to foster fellowship. She knew the best way to do it was through food. It’s hard to hold your smartphone when you’re digging into a brisket sandwich so big you’ve got to hold it with both hands.
The kids played basketball or badminton and chased each other with squirt guns. A few of us played catch. In later years, my folks set up a kiddie pool for the youngsters to soak in, and they allowed a Slip-n-Slide on the well-manicured lawn.
Mom 2.0’s birthday was July 1. She never made a fuss about that. The one day in all the year when a social convention says you can be focused on yourself, she was busy preparing a party for everyone she loved. That was Mom 2.0. Her joy was giving.
My folks held that July 4 party at their home from 1977 through 2023, missing only once for the COVID-19 pandemic. I attended all but one in my time in the family — the summer of 1999, when I was working on the baseball desk at USA Today. I watched the fireworks display from the U.S. Capitol from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. That was an acceptable excuse for missing the Fourth. There were not many.
Mom 2.0 died in November 2023 after a series of painful back surgeries brought on by a fall earlier that year. She was 74.
Dad 2.0 decided to end the Fourth of July festivities and let the branches of the family celebrate in their way. That was sad, but just as well. The job was too big for one person, and as great and giving a person as my dad is, he has no idea how to make her potato salad.
Two years later, though, I admit to feeling more unmoored on the Fourth than most days. There’s no replacing Mom 2.0’s Fourth of July holiday because there is no replacing Mom 2.0.
The challenge when we lose loved ones is to respect the ache of their absence while finding ways to move forward. Dad 2.0 visits my aunt and uncle for their fireworks display.
I am invited, of course, but with my arthritic knees and sundry other health conditions, I don’t do well on uneven ground outdoors for long periods.
My buddy Lewis puts on a pyrotechnic show at his acreage just south of Winterset on July 3. I’m invited, but I decline for the same reasons.
My friend Yvonne watches the original “Jaws” every July 4.
I watched the Nathan’s Famous hot-dog eating contest on ESPN. It’s not much of a tradition, but it’s excessive, absurd, and silly — very American.
I watched a “MAS*H” marathon on TV between naps. But I felt uneasy most of the day, like I had someplace to be even though I didn’t.
I recall the haunting lyrics of a Colin Hay song:
Don’t want you thinking I’m unhappy
What is closer to the truth
Is that if I lived till I was a hundred and two
I just don’t think I’ll ever get over you.
But the holiday passes. The sun rises. My dad and I make plans to watch the Indiana Fever game together. It will be a good time — Mom 2.0’s two favorite men sharing fellowship over root beer, Chex Mix, and ice cream.
The menu isn’t as good, but the love remains.
DANIEL P. FINNEY is a member of the IOWA WRITERS COLLABORATIVE, but don’t hold that against them. Please visit their page to view a full roster of writers and consider subscribing to their columns. Writing is hard work; people ought to get paid for it. If you enjoy it, throw them a couple of bucks. They earned it.
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Mom 2.0 does look completely irreplaceable. I’m glad you got to be loved by her.
Very touching.