The 250th

July fourth approacheth, yea and verily, and I couldn’t care less.

I have no TV, and I like it that way. I have Make America Kittens Again installed on my computer, so I don’t have to see a certain predatory mug pouting on my feed. I keep up to date with what’s going on, and on the global smoke-and-mirrors game being played… poorly.

Why on earth would I want to celebrate ‘Murica?

Would anyone like a drink? I suggest the latest, called the Reflecting Pool…

I saw that the “Great American State Fair” opened, to thunderous crickets. Definitely not impressed. I’m rather glad that our state’s governor passed on our state’s booth, though I heard that our allegedly Democratic senator took the reins, God help us.

Not that I’ll go, because if I’m going to go that far away to celebrate, I’d rather go north than south. Spend my money where I know it’ll go to local businesses, not into the pocket of a pervert, or his cronies.

I started thinking about when we started coming out of COVID lockdown.

Besides the active churches in our community, we still have some clubs and organizations rolling around. Granges, Elks, Lions, and fire companies, fill the gaps, and put on civic-oriented community stuff. For instance, the Grange put on a hoedown recently, a PA state fair milkshake sale, a ham dinner, and a Mother’s Day dinner. The Lions put on two yearly chicken BBQ dinners; the Elks collect eyeglasses, medical equipment, and tattered flags, for refurbishment or disposal.

And our volunteer fire companies… well, they’re a funky bunch.

My family used to run with them. When I was a kid, my uncle, grandfather, and dad were volunteers. When that siren sounded, the men would drop what they were doing, and run for the fire company. We “wimminfolk” would clean up whatever they dropped, make sure things were secured, then gather at the fire company hall to listen to the fire calls. Depending on how bad it was, we’re fire up the grill, and make tons of hamburgers that would be “schlepped” to the fire or accident location. Bottled sodas would accompany them, and would be handed out to firefighters and victims. We’re Penna Dutch; we feed you.

Mom was the Women’s Auxiliary Treasurer for decades, making sure we raised the funds for all those burgers and buns. We also had plenty of runs to the bottling plant, to turn in those bottles. I kinda wish I had kept one, now.

Fast forward mumblety years, and our fire company was one of the first in our area to start up a Trunk and Treat after lockdown restrictions eased. Hubster and I have been doing it ever since, with my mom and dad right behind us, literally, handing us boxes of more treats to give out as our hands get empty. We average about 150-250 kids a year, and it’s a great time.

Last year, for the fourth, our fire company put on a party for themselves, complete with fireworks.

The Kutztown Folk Festival shut down, which used to be our local big July 4 shindig.

All these elements swirled in my brain, and came up with the answer to my gloomies: why go anywhere? We’ve got it right here.

With that in mind, we drove to Lititz today.

Now, I collect squishies. You know, elongated souvenir coins? Put the money in the slots, turn the wheel or crank, and out pops a coppery shiny squished penny? Why yes, I have been hoarding pennies for years, why do you ask? Fear not, the new machines come pre-loaded with copper slugs, but there are plenty of the old styles floating around as well.

It seems that the Tom Sturgis pretzel factory got a machine…

Luckily I have the app that shows new machines, the weasels.

On the way, and back, I plotted out a route that would take us to see some of the state’s historic signs. I’ve seen so much whitewashing and forgetting of history, that I started hunting up the signs. I can read them at leisure at home, on the internet, but driving to the location and seeing them in situ makes it more special.

And that’s when I realized that I was, in fact, celebrating the 250th.

But I was doing it my way.

Quietly. Respectfully. A little random in our path, to find signs that usually get missed.

When we lived in Hershey, we drove by the Hopewell Forge Mansion sign all the time. I don’t think I ever noticed it…

Turn around, back to Lititz – which was having a street faire.

(It’s “LIT-itz,” not “Luh-TITZ.” Just saying. Pronunciation is important.)

Founded by Moravians, who believed in equality of the sexes. Home to the oldest girls’ resident school, because Moravians put money where mouth is. Still going strong, which I can attest to, since we drove right by it, and there’s the historic sign for Linden Hall. A beautiful town, one of my faves for all sorts of wonderful shops and restaurants, a gorgeous park, and Colonial houses everywhere you look. And three more historic signs.

And home to Tom Sturgis Pretzels, America’s first commercial pretzel bakery.

They’re doing tours now, which I think is freaking awesome.

Sturgis pretzels also happen to be my Dad’s favorite. When Hurricane Katrina devastated the south, my parents packed up and went to help rebuild down in the Mobile, Alabama, area. Well, Dad didn’t think to stock up on his obsession, so we get a call three months’ in – please please please take a week off work, come visit us, we’ll pay for everything, bring a van full of Tom Sturgis!!

My job chipped in, hubster’s job chipped in, for supplies and cleaning agents and gift cards. Our friends got together with us and baked cookies for the volunteers. Half our van was packed with relief supplies, and the other half, to the roof, was Tom Sturgis pretzels. That was a fun trip, though heartbreaking in other ways. Learned a lot, that’s for sure.

Back to the present...

We got to the factory towards the end of the day, and a shipment fresh out of the factory was being stocked in the gift shop. Some bags were still warm. People were waiting in line, hungry people, intense people…

They had a whole shelf of no salt added. A whole shelf!! Snagging happened.

Squishies were acquired. I may or may not have sung a squishie-collecting song to myself.

We did drive by three signs in Shillington on the way back, (Thomas Mifflin, John Updike, Union Canal), missed our exit to get back on the bypass, and got hammered with rain splats only within the bounds of Reading, but got out and back in order to deliver our prize to my dad before going home. We happened to pass the main Tom Sturgis factory on the way. Coincidence? Probably, but we enjoyed it.

Got to Mom and Dad’s house, delivered the goods, came home and ate dinner.

Dad. Ate. Half. The. Bag. Already.

If I’m not careful, he’s going to get most of my bag, too. I only ate a handful of mine.

All along our route, I saw local signs for July 4th community picnics and potlucks. Churches, municipalities, fire companies. They know that the prices of gas are insane, the country’s insane, and are spending their money local. The way they should be, in my opinion. With the people they serve, their community.

My parents are hosting a small party on the fourth. We’ll “travel” over to their house on the river (eight buildings away), and eat fruit salad and burgers, and play a few rounds of Five Crowns. We’ll check the milkweed for caterpillars, and I’ll likely be bringing some home to raise in safety. I saw a monarch on their milkweed as we left after the pretzel delivery, so Chomping Season is upon me. I already have one chrysalis hanging in the habitat; more will come.

And we’ll watch the fireworks from our back yard, and not go very far to celebrate. And reflect on what 250 years means for a country that’s descending into third world territory faster than ever, supporting a dying pervert who’s afraid of justice.

What will remain?

Well, pretzels, hopefully.

And community spirit. And mutual support.

Would you like a drink? The Reflecting Pool’s pretty good.