MARTHA MASON

Martha Mason
Breath

Several decades ago, a young man returning to our village from a stretch abroad in military service declared, %u201CIt%u2019s been five years, and the same weeds are growing in the same yards. They make me feel I can pick up my life where I left it %u2013 here at home.%u201D In recent years, however, our sleepy village has awakened a bit. Ambassador Bible College bought our empty school building that had been sacrificed to the gods of consolidation, and it%u2019s awash with young people again. Our first female mayor, Rachel, has engineered a program of %u201CBeautification and Pride.%u201D Now we have sidewalks and a gazebo. Springtime paints an especially lovely picture of our town in pink and white blossoms of dogswoods and Bradford pears. Uncle Gideon, who once had a famous tulip garden in Lattimore, must be smiling down on us from his cloud of flowers. (No, he was not a relative of mine. The Southern tradition of calling older acquaintances %u201Cuncle%u201D and %u201Caunt%u201D has followed small country stores into the sunset. Our sense of belonging to the greater community will no doubt suffer.)

If you want to see us really kick up our heels, come for a visit on the Fourth of July. Beginning in late June, I get wrapped up in creating posters on my computer to advance an event I would have belittled in earlier days. I have come to like what I have, rather than always to have what I like. Enthusiasm explodes like firecrackers on our big day. Let me share it with you.

It breaks bright, sparkling like the stars in Lady Liberty%u2019s crown, but it isn%u2019t sultry %u2013 that won%u2019t come until afternoon. I%u2019m awake early and my iron lung is positioned at the window for the best view of the parade long before the 9:00 am starting time.

Mother and her attendant sit at the foot of our wheelchair ramp %u2013 with Edison, of course. Ginger and an assortment of friends take seats nearer the street. Ginger%u2019s thrill of the day is catching candy tossed by people in the cavalcade. I admit to an ego boost when I heard yells of %u201CHEY, MARTHA!%u201D

Floats from our town as well as neighboring communities assemble at the end of my street. Music blares as a brass ensemble of high school band directors, appropriately called %u201CThe Directors,%u201D rehearses. Ponies and horses prance and strain to get the celebration moving faster. A bona fide mule tugs a vintage cart. Antique automobiles honk their raspy horns. Dune buggies and golf carts sprout red, white and blue streamers. Suddenly, there is with us a multitude of decorated bicycles declaring Freedom and Independence to all and sundry. Gary, our representative from the sheriff%u2019s department, hits his siren. The fire truck wails in response. We%u2019re celebrating!

The parade winds through town, taking all of twenty minutes at a fast walking pace before disbanding at the Lattimore Church Park. There a huge flatbed truck is bedecked with a red, white and blue skirt to make a stage fit for any Yankee Doodle Dandy. When the music of the national anthem flows over the crowd, the chest of the Boy Scout holding high the American Flag visibly swells with pride. After a welcome from Mayor Rachel, Mary plays a portable keyboard as Bob leads the celebrants in a medley of rousing patriotic songs %u2013 concluding with %u201CAmerica the Beautiful.%u201D Dr. Burgin delivers a brief address commemorating our nation%u2019s birth. I had the honor of writing the address several years ago, and Stephen read it in his splendid, resonant voice.

While veterans are honored, Cindy superintends the squealing boys and girls on the other side of the park who are straining every muscle in their bodies to climb a greased pole. Later she%u2019ll oversee a tug of war, three-legged races, egg tosses, hula-hoop contests, and much more. As the festivities proceed, young and old alike eat old-fashioned hot dogs and drink cold lemonade ladled from an ice-filled tin tub. Volleyball and tennis are options for celebrants not on the softball field. But just sitting and talking may well be the most enjoyable sport of the day. By early afternoon the celebration comes to an end. I%u2019ll have a video of the fun in the park within the hour. Of course, I%u2019ll watch the festivities several times with friends who drop by to relive the day with me.

This event doesn%u2019t just happen. It requires the combined efforts of almost everyone in our little town. For weeks before July the fourth, Bob works madly to organize the smooth flow people see on the big day. At the crack of dawn, Kenny starts placing and spacing the parade units %u2013 about fifty. Almost as early, Polly, Dot and Jean are putting the finishing touches on the decorations at the park. Carol Ann spiffs up her church kids with red and blue grease paint and spangles them with stars. Mayor Rachel and her council have spent hours attaching flags and streamers to unity poles, but they must scurry to put balloons and bows along the parade route to make it more festive.* Ann and Millie have the hot dogs sizzling in the cooker, ready to be doused with mustard and chili. An electric chopper keeps them from weeping over the onions.

Last summer one towhead was overhead asking his dad %u201CWho%u2019s going to watch the parade? Everyone%u2019s in it!%u201D

People from here and there have sometimes felt sorry for me because they see me as a person who is trapped in a useless body, trapped in an iron lung, trapped in a place not even big enough for a stoplight. They need not shed tears for me.

I treasure every minute spent with every friend, whether it%u2019s the gynecologist who trains horses in dressage, the illiterate handyman who listens in secret to opera, the college professor who pilfers rides in boxcars, or the grandmother who roller skates alone in a rink on Wednesday mornings. Each one has a special way of expanding my world. They have made my life not only bearable but also rich.

To travel to Nova Scotia %u2013 almost mile for mile %u2013 through the eye of a camcorder was as engaging for me as it was for my friends who were physically there. Tapes arrived every few days bringing sights, sounds and brilliant commentary. The UPS man even showed up with samples of food packed in dry ice from places between North Carolina and Nova Scotia%u2019s Marble Mountain. Fresh strawberry jam, long after strawberry season in our village was over, was a treat surpassed only by smoked salmon. On less elaborate jaunts, I%u2019ve been to Russia, China, Australia, Peru, Columbia, South Africa, England, Switzerland and Scandanavia. Skipping all over the world, I%u2019ve sampled the best chocolate, marzipan, and wine, but I%u2019ve not been restricted to foreign fare.

Some domestic trips have been fabulous. Sure, the Grand Canyon looks grander when you stand on its rim or fly above it, but a camcorder slowly scanning Nature%u2019s big ditch captures its awe. When I hear people talk about strolling along the High Batt%u2019ry in Charleston, South Carolina, I know exactly what they see and hear. I%u2019ve been there through the commanding descriptions of my friend who lives in that city of Southern charm and history. Watching hula girls while munching macadamia nuts isn%u2019t a bad way to appreciate Hawai%u2019i. I%u2019ve had beans from Boston and chocolates from everywhere. I%u2019ve drunk Birch Beer and chomped mammoth soft pretzels while listening to the lore of the Pennsylvania Dutch. Stories of cable cars, bridges, glorious sunsets, seafood and Knob Hill go wonderfully with sourdough loaves.

I%u2019ve %u201Cattended%u201D more weddings than Liz Taylor and Mickey Rooney combined. It%u2019s not unusual for a newlywed couple to drop by after the ceremony for me to see them dressed in their wedding togs. One couple rented a horse and carriage for the first leg of their honeymoon. Before they drove into the sunset, they detoured by my window. Every May, proud graduates in full academic regalia march through my door and we imagine we are hearing %u201CPomp and Circumstance.%u201D Not long ago my friend Jim walked the entire web of our village streets with his camera to show me the results of the cleanup and beautification project.

Picnic food spread on a checkered cloth atop a card table and baskets of wild flowers around the room keep me in touch with nature. A friend who%u2019s a stickler for realism once brought along a bottle of ants! Even though my parents were both strict teetotalers, friends often bring a bottle of good wine for an elegant meal %u2013 one with candles and flowers. Before her illness, Mother would not protest our %u201Cwine bibbing,%u201D but she did adhere to one firm rule: All empty bottles left with their escorts. %u201CI don%u2019t want the trash man to think I get smashed,%u201D she%u2019d say.

Brunch is a favorite time for entertaining. It gives us the time we must have for morning chores but not be exhausted from the day%u2019s activities. My friend Pat is the consummate hostess. When she%u2019s here from Raleigh visiting her mother, we look for reasons to have a party. When a fellow who grew up in our village and was thought by many to be a loser came home a winner, Pat and I decided a celebration was in order. We invited a few others and had a magnificent time reliving old days of basketball victories and special teachers. With balloons, banners, and flowers, we made him aware of our pride in him.

The roads I travel with friends are endless.