This is a patriotic message, since today is the Fourth of July. Even though I think daily of expatriating to Denmark or England or France, and Kip thinks maybe Spain would be nice, I must acknowledge that it is the birthday, so to speak, of the USA (would that be BOTUS?), and it is also the birthday my paternal grandfather assigned to himself, since he did not know his real birthday. My other grandparents also hitched their "birthdays" to holidays, because, well, they just had no way to find out their actual birthdates. But from what I know, they were better off once they got away from their birthplaces, because they came to the U.S. and lived relatively freely here. Free of certain things--my maternal grandparents sewed clothing in sweatshops, but they also helped build the International Ladies' Garment Workers' Union. At that time, no one shot them for trying. That is a measure of freedom, innit? So I am going to talk about freedom. Not for people, but for lizards and bugs and plants. The other day I was out in the yard and trying to water the alleged plants that we are growing, when I heard this scuttling, scrambling noise. I can't describe the sound any other way. Of course I thought "oh no...more baby birds..." The sound came from this big cardboard box on our porch collecting empty bottles for recycling. (Yes, it is in front of the house next to the old couch, broken appliances, and camper shell. What. You got a problem with that?) Inside the box, struggling to climb up the sides and being very unsuccessful, was one of these big black desert beetles. It reminded me of the sound of a palmetto bug trying to escape up the sides of a trash can. The sound is always bigger than the critter. You can hear the desperation in the frantically scrambling legs. And there are six legs per insect, so think about that. That's a lot of noise. Anyway, I fished the animal out of the box and went about my watering the dead lavender plants that I put in last month. Yep, the lavender plants are dead alright but the canteloupe seeds that were in the compost pile (in which I so carefully nestled the plants) volunteered (very patriotic), so I started watering those instead. So the lavender is free of this world, and the genetic information coiled in the melon seeds freed itself and waves hello at me every day. Free melon is a good thing, right? So I was, you know, happily puttering around in the yard, and a little while later, I heard that scrambling noise again. So back I went, to see could I find out what was in that box. A New Mexican Whiptail Lizard! Running around in circles--well, squares actually--trying like crazy to get free of the box. So I tried to catch him but he was too fast for me. So I took the glass bottles out of the box one by one, then turned the box on its side. The lizard scurried out and disappeared while I blinked. That was it. So about this clichéed notion of "thinking outside the box..." Well, thinking outside the damn box doesn't actually get you out of the damn box. Taking your freedom is a deliberate act. Making a little noise also helps. Sometimes you even need a little help from your friends. (No, I am not sending you the Beatles because it's the Fourth, and even though the British Invasion was a good thing in many ways, we'll just talk about that another day.) So with that in mind, here is a Poem About America (not just because it has America in the title but because is Whitman which automatically makes it About America--and please don't complain to me about sex-role stereotypes, thank you, just use your imagination and "sing what belongs to you and to none else"...oh and BTW I think my grandpa Harry worked as a hat-cutter once so this is for him...) and a Freedom Song: I Hear America Singing by Walt Whitman I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows,robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs. Staple Singers 1971. Mavis is just gettin' warmed up... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=25Fudv9bT3I