The Fourth of July is a never-changing delight
I’ve spent this day in many locales, but clearly, there’s no place like home
Portions of this column have appeared previously on the Fourth of July. But even though the Fourth of July changes from year to year, my long-ago childhood memories remain the same.
I’ve spent the Fourth of July in a number of places across my favorite country, plus several times in Canada and once in Scotland. Much to my surprise, it is not a big deal in either of those countries.
Who knew?
While most holidays come and go, my memories of the Fourth go back to my days as a kid growing up in this very small town that had but one elementary school and absolutely no stoplights.
On our first Fourth of July after moving here from the big city of Portland, there were exactly 3,554 souls in Davis, plus several lost souls. With five kids in tow, my parents were early pioneers in trying to keep Davis schools open.
I’m not sure, but it seems as if the town has grown a bit since then, mostly before the invention of Measure J.
Despite our town’s small size, there was a kiddie parade in those days, but it was always led by the flag-bearing ROTC color guard from the University Farm. But they were not kids at all.
One year, however, they got called away at the last minute to some much more important event, I’m sure. Suddenly, my older brother J.J., who was carrying a very large flag as part of a family “Spirit of ’76” entry, was summoned into service to lead the parade. It was the first peacetime draft in American history.
Then again, my Fourth of July experiences haven’t all been in Davis, though they seem to have been remarkably similar no matter where I was. Except, of course, Canada and Scotland.
Yes, I did spend one Fourth on a tennis excursion in Scotland, where the locals kept referring to me and my playing partner, a Davis legend named Brett Stone, as “Yanks.” They also served haggis for dinner and there were absolutely no fireworks to be found. But at least the natives were friendly despite having a pair of ugly Americans in their midst.
One other year I found myself on foreign soil in Victoria, B.C., with my Red-Headed Bride of six days, expecting to celebrate the Fourth in proper style. We had been there three days earlier for an incredible Canada Day celebration where we sang “O Canada” with the crowd along the Inner Harbour and met Joe Canada himself.
We decided to stay over for the Fourth, only to learn that it’s not a particularly big holiday on the other side of the border. “No Fourth in the North” became our slogan for the day.
My birthplace of Portland is another great place to spend the Fourth, what with the greatest fireworks display on the West Coast erupting for nearly an hour from the exact geographic center of the Columbia River separating Oregon and Washington.
I’ve had memorable Fourths in Salt Lake City and Idaho Falls and Elko and Banff and Bend, not to mention getting hopelessly lost on a potholed dirt road at the top of Goat Mountain in Colusa County with the Red-Headed Girl of My Dreams. If you’re going to get lost as darkness falls on the Fourth of July, she’s not a bad choice of company.
And no, I did not get us lost on purpose.
But what really got my Fourth of July juices flowing was reading Bruce Gallaudet’s account a couple of years ago of the 10-year-old slugger from Woodland who hit three consecutive home runs in a tight win over the Davis National 9- and 10-year-old All-Stars.
Bruce Gallaudet, as you may remember, is the greatest sportswriter from here to the Oregon border.
His three-homer report reminded me of that legendary Davis Little League phenom named Jimmy Keylor, who also smacked three home runs in a single game long ago as the Davis All-Stars took three giant steps toward Williamsport before finally falling. (It was single elimination in those days.)
I was on that team and had walked all three times and was on third base each time Keylor came to bat. Not being the fast guy on the field, it was a thrill to lope home without fear that someone was going to throw me out.
Several weeks prior to Keylor’s incredible heroics on our town’s behalf, we all played in an exhibition game between a pair of Davis teams on the Fourth of July. I happened to be on the mound in relief, nursing a 5-3 lead — mostly off the powerful bat of Larry Caster — when Keylor came to the plate with the bases loaded and two outs in the bottom of the final inning.
Keylor was short and compact and incredibly powerful. He used a redwood tree instead of a baseball bat. He was the most feared Little Leaguer on this side of Williamsport.
I actually considered walking him intentionally to avoid the inevitable. Sure, it would have forced in a run, but I’d still have a 5-4 lead and at least a theoretical chance of pulling out the win.
As the crowd sat in hushed silence, I threw my very best fastball — at least 25 mph — straight down the middle. Keylor smiled as it arrived, mouthed the words “thank you” and blasted the ball halfway to Dixon, but I did manage to shake his hand as he rounded third and headed for home. Lucky for me, he later became my teammate.
As much as I wished at the time that I’d been able to set him down on strikes or at least induce a long fly ball to center, when I look back now, I wouldn’t change a thing.
What he did that day was memorable. For both of us.