4th of July, Independence Day for the United States of America. I like the fireworks, and any excuse for a barbeque is a good thing by me, but my plans for July 4th prior to marrying the USboy and moving over here 4 years ago were pretty much following it up with July the 5th, so it's not got the resonance for me that it has for Jeff. Hence his guest entry. (That and the fact that it's one more entry towards my winning the bet! Hey Jeffrey, want to write another 2 or 3 or 27? no?)

When I was a kid, I always looked forward to the Fourth of July with a giddy excitement similar to the way I felt about Halloween. Yes, I was a bit goofy, but it was a different age back then. Kids were still kids, not miniature adults. I wonder how such a drastic change occurred since the late 60's and early 70's. But those ruminations are fodder for another entry, not today's.

American Independence Day was a day to be with family at a huge barbecue at my grandmother's house. There were throngs of relatives and friends and tons of food. My grandfather, whose usual attire was a business suit even on weekends, would chuck off the tie and jacket and don a white apron with some corny design like "Kiss The Cook" on it. He would stoke the fire in the backyard red-brick barbecue pit and commence cooking when the fire got nice and hot. The grill on this backyard beast was a good 4 feet by 4 feet and when fully loaded, held a huge pot of chili, 20 hamburgers, 20 hot dogs, a basin of baked beans and a pot of steamed corn. Sometimes, for variety there might be a kettle of clams or crabs.

Under the huge oak tree in the middle of the backyard were several huge washtubs filled with cracked ice. Some tubs held soft drinks like Coke, 7-Up or Mountain Dew. Others held stubby brown bottles of Budweiser or a monstrous green watermelon. By the time things started to cook, the ice would be partially melted in these tubs creating a slurry of ice and water that made an adventure of fishing around for your favorite bottle under the ice before you lost all sense of feeling in your hand.

There was always at least one tub of "good ice" that could not be molested. It was the ice used in mixing cocktails (or "highballs" as my grandfather referred to them) and for making ice cream.

Hand-cranked ice cream is a tradition at our family barbecues. If you've never experienced it, I pity you. For you have not experienced true ice cream until you've cranked a White Mountain ice cream freezer until your arm hurts. The process involves an ice cream freezer: a device consisting of a stainless-steel tank to hold the batch mix of sugar, vanilla, cream/milk etc.This tank would sit inside a wooden bucket which would be packed with ice after the tank was inserted. A crank mechanism fastened onto the top of the bucket and tank. Inside the tank would be a paddle/whisk. You crank the crank. The paddle and the tank rotate, scraping the crystallized cream mixture from the inner part of the tank and adding just the right amount of air into the mixture to make it light and fluffy. During the process, you add rock salt to the ice in the tub causing the ice to melt and thus transferring the heat out of the tank. More ice is added periodically as the original stuff melts off. It's quite a science when you think about it.

We all took turns cranking. It was the law. No crank, no ice cream. The little kids always got to crank first when it was easy. By the time the burly young men got a turn, it took two men to hold down the freezer while the one cranked with both hands.It was necessary work to create the perfect smooth blend of ice crystals, cream and air. The worst part of the job was the period of seasoning when the ice cream had to rest under an ice pack to cure before it could be eaten. It could take up to an hour or more depending on the weather.

The resulting ice cream was smooth and cold and fragile... returning to its liquid state quickly in the summer heat. Boy, it was and still is as good as it gets.

After the first wave of cooking was done, my grandfather's work was done and he'd settle back in a lawn chair with a cold Bud and a Camel (unfiltered, of course). But he'd soon get restless and be back up mixing highballs for the masses and cracking off-color jokes out of earshot of the women and children.

As the afternoon rolled on the games would begin. There as always a fierce-but-friendly battle brewing in the horseshoe pits between my father and my grandfather (his father-in-law). Across the yard the older kids and young adults would be playing badminton. The kids would have bubbles, or hula hoops or stilts or any number of other diversions. Inevitably, someone who'd had a few too many highballs would insist on using the stilts and/or the hula hoops and soon all the adults would be waiting for a turn. Of course, there was always someone with a camera to provide incriminating evidence for some later time.

As night fell, the tiki torches were lit - always an exciting time for the junior pyromaniacs in the crowd - and the movie screen went up. Most of the time the show consisted of slides from the grandparents' recent vacation, or a wedding. there were always shots of previous years' barbecues and the antics which ensued. Some of the faces reflected on screen were missing from the crowd of the day.

“There's Uncle Bill... he sure did know how to have fun”

“ I really miss Aunt Julia's chow-chow...”

Each year more and more faces disappeared from our barbecues.

Aunts, Uncles, friends, grandparents...

I miss them all. And I remember them with love.

When my brothers and I crank the ice cream on this Fourth of July, we'll crank 'til our arms hurt and tell a few off-color jokes and my nieces and nephews will have a blast.

Updated 9 July, 2002

Copyright Amanda Page, 1996-2002