Independence Day

Fireworks and spendthrifts above the valley.

Up until the early 1960s, the most interesting parade we'd ever seen would march down Lincoln Avenue in Calistoga every evening before the Fourth of July. The Ugly Parade never drew much of a crowd, but its singular, zany nature certainly deserved one. A couple of dozen groups competed to see which could be the most tacky, and participants plumbed the depths of bad taste, displayed deadpan.

There were always marching bands playing toy drums and trumpets in a purposely discordant cacaphony, and you could depend on a couple of teams of men to show up in thrift store dresses, fright wigs, and an abundance of makeup badly applied. A squad of hoboes equipped with shopping carts containing dogs might do a chaotic close-order drill routine; a group on decrepit bicycles with flat tires would roll by, running into each other from time to time. Junky floats featured hairy fat fellows in tutus, and we seem to remember a team consisting of men in their briefs, each pinging on a little toy triangle.

The audience inevitably responded in a desultory manner, and the participants exhibited little more enthusiasm; afterward, we'd join our family for dinner in one of the modest, otherwise empty cafes. In retrospect, we often wonder why they bothered; it evoked nothing so much as the Great Depression, and an attempt to make light of tragedy and failure. It reminds us of one of those Garrison Keilor riffs about Lake Wobegone, perhaps a community obligation rooted in Lutheran guilt over some civic crime, demanding a display of utter humiliation. At the time, however, we just thought it mysteriously amusing.

We suppose it possible that even then the town staged a parade on the Fourth, ending at the fairgrounds as the county fair opened, but we don't know for sure. That's what does happen now, and it's one of the best of its sort around. The Old West ambiance of Calistoga naturally sets an appropriate scene, and residents jam the sidewalks long before the mid-morning start. The heat is already mounting, but still lacks the withering power of midafternoon, and by the time the vanguard begins the march, the sense of anticipation is acute as the sun finally rises high enough to chase away the last shadows. It's an old- fashion parade, with marching bands, showoff riders on horses in fancy tack, ancient cars, homemade floats, Shriner-types on little trikes.

Kids eat cotton candy and throw poppers at the unwary, the incessant, random crack of mini-explosions one of the day's constants. Flags abound, and so does an unambiguous sense of patriotism. As the last parader walks by, the crowd dissipates, half following the line to the fair, the rest pealing off down sidestreets to find their cars. Parties break out all over town, and the bars fill with thirsty patrons eager to compensate for the hours under the intensifying sun. At Suzy's this year, we ended up surrounded by a bevy of squeeling young hotties just off their '70s theme float, wearing obscenely short skirts, roller skates, and lots of glitter.

It would be an unremarkable display, except that fewer and fewer parades seem to cleave to the model. Ambivalence toward the military has discouraged color guards and marching bands, and suburban sprawl has eliminated the way of life that once accounted for the cowboys and mounted sherrif's posses. Benicia, for instance, is unjustly renowned for its parades; it presents many throughout the year, but they're marked by a stunning mediocrity. The town also does a parade the night before the Fourth, and it's packed. But even though the community boasts award winning school bands, they seldom appear, and we don't remember ever seeing more than a horse or two, if that many. Instead, it depends on local politicians sitting in the back of convertibles, a few unimaginative floats, a car club consisting, say, of 20 years worth of Mustangs, and realty staffs wearing matching t-shirts and playing the kazoo. It is interminably boring beyond description. Thankfully, the town compensates the next night, shooting fireworks into the skies over the Carquinez Straits.

Napa makes a feeble attempt at fireworks on the Fourth, and the river area between First and Third on Main is devoted to the festivities, including bands and food. But we could find no barbecue--a travesty to our mind--and the legacy of John Phillip Souza was noticeably absent. Most regrettably, the fireworks discharge at a distance away, aimed so they blossom for the benefit of the portion of the crowd on the Third Street bridge, a minority of the audience; most people suffered a badly obscured view, the river foliage masking the show. And the rockets don't explode directly overhead, an effect that would dazzle everyone in attendance as the colored light fell toward you, but somewhere near the Town and Country Fairgrounds, a half-mile away. Even those on the bridge may as well have been watching a display in a neighboring town.

Silverado Country Club made up for it with its display on the night of the third, and the golf course fairways were covered with lawn chairs long before nightfall. We'd been invited to join our friend Mary at the house of a widowed neighbor. A comfortable ranch style residence dating to the early '60s, it was appointed with tastefully casual furniture, and a patio looking onto the the golf course. Most of us were strangers, the assembly nonetheless welcoming; we met well-preserved women who lunched and played golf, couples of second and third spouses joined by their visiting adult children, retirees with too much time on their hands. Grilled meat, of course, was served, washed down with fine wines and lesser beers.

The rockets finally went off, revealing many of the latest twists in pyrotechnics; happy faces are now in vogue, and they've also figured out how to create Saturn effects, with rings encompassing the temporary orbs of colored, burning sulphur. Neil Diamond dominated the stereo, blaring out his "Come to America" song, but even he could not dampen the festivities. True to form, the program erupted into an accelerated orgy of booming color and light toward the climax; it ceased suddenly, the show over, and cheers rent the air all across the sprawling development.

Traffic strangled streets for miles, chair-toting pedestrians weaving in and out between cars; the jubilation of minutes before degenerated into mass frustration. It seemed like an excellent time for a starlit walk within one of the many gated communities comprising the club, and we proceeded up the hill on stark, winding avenues running by huge houses. A few residents cast down their greetings from view-commanding decks, parties sputtering to a close all along that eastern stretch of the valley.

Situated on the slopes beneath Mt. George, the site provides unparallelled sunsets, and the steep terrain invites many-storied back walls to take advantage of the vistas. From the front, these homes might have appeared to be reasonably restrained, but a lower perspective regarded intimidating, monolithic rectangles on end, with tile roofs and the absence of architectural detailing characteristic of many current designs. Beige stucco covered the slabbish walls, uniting the neighborhood in its overpowering blandness, a good thing, perhaps, since the whole blended inoffensively into the rocky backdrop.

But there was also something pleasantly familiar about the place, and then it hit us; the structures closely approximated various remnants at the Forum in Rome. These were the same shapes and sizes that rich Romans would have built in similar circumstances, albeit in ochre brick, with a greater emphasis on ornamentation.

Which brought to mind the widow's house that hosted the party. It appeared to enclose around 2000 square feet, and would offer a commodious environment to any family of four or five. The houses on the adjacent heights were double or triple its size, providing a stark example of the changes in what the well-heeled of Napa--and America at large--had come to expect as their residential due. We're reminded of a friend, who resides at the same country club; he jokes that he really lives in a modest space defined by bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. The rest of the house contains the living room furniture storage area, the dining room furniture storage area, the den furniture storage area. He is unique only in his candor.

One of the ongoing cultural debates now rampant concerns the nature of consumerism, and the spectrum defining reasonable consumption and gross waste. On the one hand, anything less than a guilt-ridden obsession serving self denial is considered immorally disdainful of the dictates of good global citizenship; on the other, wanton accumulation of pricey luxuries is presented as the ultimate expression of our constitutional rights.

The Founders lived as well as they could in their day, enjoying all the perquisites of wealth and power; these were not especially modest men, and they eschewed self-sacrifice for its own sake. Yet, the legacy they left behind was one of measured frugality. The old hallmark of a stereotypical American suggested the New England Yankee, a thrifty, hard-working soul, who avoided credit, abhorred waste and detested ostentation. That icon crumbled under the weight of the Gold Rush, Comstock silver, and railroad fortunes, replaced by the image of a profligate robber baron. He is not an inspiring sight.

But that's freedom for you, with all its inherent messiness, tidied up once a year on the Fourth of July.

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Copyright WineMerchant.com 2006