The Fifth of July, 2005

Did you ever notice that men are mesmerized by a hole in the ground? When you pass a construction site, and there is a hole in the ground, there will be men gathered around it leaning on shovels, and talking to one-another while never taking their eyes off that hole. It doesn’t have the same attraction to women. A woman will walk by a hole, glance inside, and say, "There’s nothing in there.", and keep on walking. A man will stop, and soon other men will gather, and they will stand all around that hole and stare into it and talk. They don’t look at one-another, they stare into the hole. Sometimes they will pick up a rock or a clod of dirt and throw it into the hole. Sometimes they take a stick or a shovel and poke it into the hole. Even a small hole like a post hole will attract them. I looked out the back door the other day, and there was the neighbor from across the street standing next to my son. Frank had dug the hole to put a fence post in. There he stood, leaning on his shovel, and the neighbor man stood next to him, and they both stared down into that hole as they talked as if that hole was the most significant thing in the universe.
I imagine the conversation, which I never get to hear, because they quit talking as soon as a female approaches.
"There’s a hole in the ground."
"Yep, I dug that hole."
"It’s a good hole."
"I’m going to put a fence post in there."
‘It’s just the right size - could be a little deeper."
"Yeah, but it’ll do for that fence post."
"Yep."
In the back yard is a 30 acre hayfield. Right in the middle is a big hole. A contractor dug it a few years back when he had some hair-brained scheme that involved me giving him some acres and him getting rich while I would get a deed to some swamp land in Nevada. He came over to my house so many times, I finally I agreed to let him dig some holes to see if the soil would "perk" which, if it did, then he could dig some other kind of holes and put in septic tanks and build condominiums. I knew he would not find the right kind of soil, but that’s another story. Suffice it to say, that he was determined, and the hole got rather large before he realized I was right, there wasn’t the right kind of soil all the way down to China. After he and his men had their obligatory gathering around the hole, they stomped off, and never filled it back in. That was a few years ago.
That hole has some attraction to my son that I cannot fathom. Instead of filling the hole in like I wanted him to, he has invented things the hole can be good for. The pile of dirt next to it is great for propping up paper plates, milk jugs, tomatoes, watermelons and tin cans. Then, under the guise of "sighting in the gun" or perhaps "testing the load in some new ammunition", he and my grandson will fire away. If I look out there during the pauses, they will be standing together looking down into the hole. I think it might be some sort of male bonding ritual. I should have remembered this before I agreed to the bonfire.
That hole is a great place to throw anything that is organic in the name of landfill, and a good place to burn fallen trees and brush. It has become known as "the burn pile". We have always had one. It’s a useful thing. We burned the old corn crib and some other buildings, and ruined hay and broken furniture as well. There was a huge pile of such flammables about a story high. My son said he wanted the mother of all bonfires on his birthday. July fifth is his day. For years he thought the fireworks on the 4th were for him. I let him think so. His birthday is often a difficult day for him. I wonder if it’s because he knows that the fireworks aren’t for him or if it’s because he’s an only child. It seemed like a good time to invite the kids over, and have a birthday dinner, and light the fire. I went to the fire department to get a burn permit. Here, in Northfield Township, now that the people from the city are moving in and ruining everything, you need to get a permit to have a fire. I told the lady there at the township hall that it would be visible from the road, and we were going for a world record bonfire. She wrote that down and faxed it over to the fire station while I watched so they wouldn’t come over on a false alarm and I wouldn’t get a fine. Everything seemed just fine.
Dinner was great. Frank said the only way to be sure you weren’t disappointed in your birthday dinner was to do it yourself. That was his excuse to drag out one of his favorite toys - his smoker. He bought four chickens and a duck, and beer cans (we don’t’ drink beer) and special spice rubs and Boone Farm Orange wine to baste the duck, and cans of peas and dill pickles and cheddar cheese for his favorite pea salad. We all shared a sip of the Boone Farm Orange Wine and agreed it was perfectly horrible. It tasted just like Orange Crush. We thought it would be a good marinade for the duck. He happily mixed up sauces and "mops" and things all afternoon. I went to get the boys, and they spent the afternoon with their Dad throwing things into the big hole for the burn pile. This involved tractors, pick-up trucks and chain saws. Frank and Frank (his first son is named Frank) spent a lot of time looking into that hole, too. Frank was in heaven. I made a lemon meringue pie and roasted potatoes and broccoli cheese casserole. My grandson, John, isn’t into the male bonding thing, yet. He prefers to hang out with Grandma in the kitchen near the food. I taught him how to make a real cheese sauce from béchamel and grated cheddar cheese. It came out pretty good. Melissa came and brought along her current beau. He’s a beefy kid, a mechanic, with a big appetite, a beard, and an earring in his left ear.
After dinner, we all grabbed whatever we were drinking and piled into the pick up truck. Frank brought along a shovel. We drove out back to the burn pile. The dogs trotted along, too, and at the very tail end, just as we were getting the can of gas out of the bed of the truck, along came Pinky WashChowsky, the yellow cat with his tail straight up. He loves a good party. The sun was just setting. It was red in the west and we all chanted "Red sun at night sailor’s delight" and other wise sayings. There was a discussion about the right way to throw several gallons of gasoline on a burn pile without catching yourself on fire. Frank poured it all over the hay. I tried to tell him gasoline wasn’t necessary, but he insisted we needed to get rid of "spoiled gas" and so, he went ahead and poured a whole can on the pile, and saved a little to make a trail on the ground. He has had experience in these matters. He didn’t want to loose his eyebrows again. Of course, gasoline is invisible when it sinks into the ground. Frank hopped in the air a little when he dropped the match and the flames went "whoosh!" right under his feet, but nothing important got singed. The fire was good. It wasn’t a world record, but it was satisfying anyway. We stayed to watch until Melissa, her boyfriend, Mary and Pinky the cat all left. It was a good thing. I wouldn’t have wanted them upset. The fireflies came out. It was real pretty watching them twinkle like little sparks all over the hayfield. We had to stand back. The heat was pretty intense, but the ground was wet from rain and there was no danger of the field catching on fire. Then it began to rain again. John, Frank, Frank, and Billy, the Golden Retriever all piled into the truck and watched the fire from inside like being at the drive-inn.
I noticed a car stop for a long time on North Territorial Road. Its lights changed from white to red and back to white. I could tell that it turned around. Then another car drove up beside it, and they sat there one facing East and the other West side by side like people do when they stop on a country road to talk out the driver’s window. I said it was a fool thing to do on a busy road like that in the rain after dark. Someone might come along and run into them. Lots of some ones did show up. Pretty soon there was a traffic jam out there. Then I noticed the fire trucks and heard the sirens. I thought there was an accident. Then the trucks began to pull off the road, and point their headlights into our hayfield. It wasn’t long until we were surrounded by every piece of fire equipment in Northfield Township, and dozens of volunteers in pickup trucks.
"Oh, no, here they come!" said Little Frank. He’s not little we just call him that because big Frank didn’t want his son being called Junior. I stayed in the truck. Soon, all the firemen were out there in the rain talking to Big Frank. We were surrounded. The bright lights from the fire trucks and spotlights and such lit the place up. Along with the light from the fire it looked just like a movie. The whole town shows up because aliens have landed in the Bohanon’s hayfield. Stand back people, we have this under control. Go back to your homes and shut the doors, and pull the drapes so you’ll be safe. They stood and looked down into the hole. They leaned on shovels and talked not looking at one another. I should have remembered about how a hole in the ground attracts men.
Big Frank said" Let me guess – a yuppie with a cell phone."
The fireman was decked out in his fire suit and yellow hat. His boots looked too big for him. "Yeah, lots of yuppies with cell phones called. You can see the orange glow from this fire for miles." Then he laughed. "We had to come there were so many calls. Those people all moved out here from the city, and ruined everything."
The firemen circled the fire and stared down into the hole where it was. They lingered until they got a call about a traffic accident out in front of the fire station – no injuries, the voice on the radio said. They all smiled at each other. One of them brought a clipboard and wanted to see my fire permit.
"It’s up at the house on the kitchen table. You want me to go get it?"
By this time it was pouring rain. Water dripped off his hat and onto his clipboard making it hard to write down my name and address – like as if he didn’t know who I was and where he was. These were the same guys that were there the day Ed died. This man had tried to resuscitate him, and had carried his body out my door. He had rested his hand on my shoulder that day.
He shook his head "Naw, it’s raining. Let me see your driver’s license."
I thought," Oh no, I don’t have it with me or my glasses either. Was I going to get arrested right here in my own backyard because some yuppies with cell phones got to minding everyone else’s business? Had the world changed so much?"
I said to him. "No, I’m not on the road." He shook his head with an expression on his face that made me think he thought that was a stupid thing for him to ask me there in my own backyard.
"Naw, it’s raining."
After they left, we sat a long time re-telling each other what had happened.
Little Frank said "This is the best thing that’s happened all summer." Both boys laughed so hard they were jumping up and down in the back seat from the effort of it.
Then, they went and stood next to their Dad in the rain and looked down into that hole.