This memory sticks out as the definitive feeling of what the Fourth of July should be like . Beer adverts ; election campaigns ; a Springsteen record my father vehemently insists is niche ; the local cinema ’ s annual reshowing of Nashville ; a freshly cleaned garden flag ; the recoloring of every decoration into variants of red , white , and blue : these all strengthen , yet are unique to no one , that very feeling . For me though , the unshared detail is the dimly lit match my father gives me as I light my first firework . My mother didn ’ t capture how much my hand trembled with it . Nor the sheer happiness I felt after it exploded the night into a blinding array of colors , leaving a starburst after-image in my sight and memory .
( p . 11-16 ) Our New York apartment , a house party with my mother ’ s work friends , 1984 . I hated that apartment . There was a long transition period between my parents making fake promises to return to Oregon and referencing that house with the type of past tense exclusive to observing photo albums . Crudely tossed-around phrases like ; do you remember the time that … but never the one I hoped for ; how long are we staying in New York ?
These photographs aren ’ t captioned so I ’ ll do my best to remember her friends ’ names . They were all teachers too . In middle school , the ones that taught me were Mrs . Moore , Mr . Myers , and Ms . Mendoza ( make a note printers , no r , her divorce was the source of all her idioms ). Archie Myers was the most memorable . A history teacher and womanizer I couldn ’ t help but think resembled a ginger Indiana Jones . There ’ s a handful of teachers ’ partners littering the scene , two of my school friends , mother ’ s cousins , and my dad ’ s best friend called Otto ( who inherited a foreign fortune in ‘ 87 , disappeared , then returned in ‘ 94-ish after filing for bankruptcy ). There are more characters here with odd haircuts and grim smiles , but they ’ re as much strangers to me now as they were back then . Most of which occupy the corners of the living room like neglected mold , holding plastic party cups and sharing awkward eyelines . Archie stands out , wielding his glass like he ’ s familiar with where the drinks cabinet is .
Here ’ s the back of my head as seen from the narrow slit of bedroom door left open . How strange it looks , like someone has squeezed it . A skull with blonde fuzz . I forget how skinny I was as a child . Rory and I sit facing a TV , out of view , playing the NES . It ’ s not shown , but we ’ re probably playing Donkey Kong . I only got my console for my twelfth birthday , so Rory ’ s mother must have let him bring it over .
This party collection culminates with my parents co-rocking a home karaoke set . A living room converted into a theatre silently claps , two vocal cords bellow a forgotten song in
Wedding Photographs 52