The first Fourth of July without Mom 2.0

America's birthday was Mom's grand ball of the year. She died in November and Dad and I are left to find a new way to mark the holiday.

This Fourth of July was the first one without Joyce, my beloved Mom 2.0.

Joyce was born on July 1 but celebrated her birthday in grand fashion with a Fourth of July party she and Bob, Dad 2.0, hosted at their stately east Des Moines manor for decades.

They decorated the garage with flags and streamers. They played patriotic marching music.

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The workbench Bob and I built together in the early 1990s served as a buffet table.

Barbequed meats, pork and beans, scalloped potatoes, relishes, and, of course, Joyce’s famous potato salad ran the length on the bench. A table of homemade desserts stood at the end of the bench.

Joyce planned for the event all year. She shopped for the perfect plates and decorations, sometimes looking in shops while she and Bob were on a camping trip.

She sent invitations by early June and if you had any respect at all, you RSVP’d post haste.

Joyce invited both sides of the family — her mom, sisters and brother and their families and Bob’s mom, brother and their families.

In the old days, the kids played basketball in the stifling heat. The most athletic moves came as acrobatic efforts to keep the ball from mashing any of Joyce and Bob’s beautiful flowers.

Joyce and Bob were such through planners that they knew exactly when to plant their flowers so that they were in full, perfect bloom by the Fourth of July.

We sweat a lot and ate too much, but we were together, family, friends, and neighbors in a fellowship that centered on the generosity of one extraordinary woman.

I am not a man who easily expresses his sentiments, especially in relationships with others.

One way I tried to tell people how much I loved them was by inviting them to the Fourth of July at my parents’ house.

The very best thing in my life has always been Bob and Joyce. If I could share them with people, they would know the face of unconditional love. What better gift could I give?

The whole thing was pure Americana. Had Norman Rockwell still been alive, he would have set up a canvas outside the garage.

The attendance dwindled at the celebration as the family grew older. People died. Others moved away. Some wanted to celebrate in other ways.

Last year, the heat sweltered. I confided in Yvonne, a fellow newspaper refugee with whom I shared Bob and Joyce, that I didn’t know how much longer my parents could keep doing this party. They were both 74 at the time and age catches up with us all.

Still, she joyfully served homemade ice cream — strawberry or pineapple sherbet. I had a cup of each.

My friend Rebecca once attended the party with me. She says she thinks about that ice cream every year on the Fourth of July.

At the end of last year’s celebration, Joyce was exhausted and in terrible pain. She had fallen in late June. This resulted in a severe back injury that ultimately required two surgeries in November.

The last surgery was too much for her body. She got weaker and faded away.

I wasn’t aware how bad things were. Joyce kept that to herself. She sounded tired but remained positive on the phone.

Bob later told me that he said she wasn’t giving people the full story.

But that was Joyce. She served joy and comfort. She eased other’s pain. She did not share hers.

Joyce died Nov. 27, the Monday after Thanksgiving.

I did not think about the Fourth of July that day, but in the weeks leading up to this year’s holiday I felt a tightness in my chest.

It was not exactly grief, more the ache of her absence.

The garage was closed. The work bench was piled with gardening tools and supplies. The families all celebrated the holiday in their own way.

Joyce’s was the linchpin that held us all together. With her gone, people have gone their own way. That is only natural.

Bob and I joined our friend Yvonne for burgers and cucumber salad. Bob helped Yvonne with her new grill. They talked about gardening tips. I sipped iced tea and remembered.

Later, Bob went his brother’s house in Bondurant for fireworks.

Iwent home and got into the pool, letting the memories wash over me with the water.

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Daniel P. Finney is a member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative. Please visit their page to see a full roster of writers and consider subscribing to their columns.

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