Saturday night, Señora and I went to a party at a friend’s house who lives in The Hill district of St. Louis. This friend shares the same first name with Señora which occasionally gets confusing. We socialize with another couple and the man shares a first name with me. People tend to say Cathy’s David or Robin’s David. Just to set the picture a little clearer, all of the folks at this party were retired, and if not they were getting close. If you had been in your late 50s you would have been a youngster there.
If you are not familiar with St. Louis you might not know about The Hill. In less politically correct times it was known as Dago Hill. In the late 19th century many Italian immigrants began settling in this area for jobs in the nearby factories. The Wikipedia article on The Hill lists many famous Italian-Americans that grew up there. Today it is still very Italian and they promote this. There are at least two Italian supermarkets there selling many food items from the old country, various delis and bakeries, and many, many Italian restaurants. At least one the restaurant-bars has a bocce ball court outside. When I watched this game when I lived in Italy it always struck me as a cross between bowling and shuffleboard, but it is a very ancient game, probably from the Roman Empire era. Like any good Italian neighborhood there is a very active Catholic church, St. Ambrose. It is now a neighborhood of older, but very well maintained shotgun houses, many with very Italian names on the mailboxes. On a weekend it is a very busy place with folks visiting the various restaurants and stores. Parking is always a problem on the narrow streets, many of which are one way. It is a neighborhood definitely worth a visit if you get to St. Louis.
The main attraction Saturday, besides socializing and eating, was fireworks. For the last 17 years the neighborhood has had a fireworks display on the first Saturday after the 4th of July. I am not sure why I did not know about it before now, but that has been corrected. It is very well attended by people in the area and folks coming in from outside.
After eating, a little before dark thirty, we gathered up as a group with our lawn chairs and blankets and headed to the park that was six or seven blocks from Robin’s house. Picture a group of 20 or 25 seniors parading down the sidewalk with our various loads. Many of the houses close to the park were having parties on the lawn. We passed one such house with a group of 20 somethings in front. The young men were trying desperately to look very hipster, and the young ladies were vamping with their hair dyed various florescent shades. One of the young hipsters could not stand it and asked if we were going to the fireworks. When someone responded with an affirmative, his response was, “Iconic, iconic… ICONIC!” I personally was not sure that was a compliment.
As we got close to the park it dawned on me that there was a big crowd there and a fair amount of police presence. I vaguely wondered if we really needed to be there. I began to think of the several mass shootings we have had lately, many at events of just this type. I squelched the thought. We need to be cautious, but on the other hand we cannot let these idiots win. It is indeed strange times we are living in.
The fireworks were very good, one of the better displays I have seen lately.
I am going to change the subject somewhat, but remain with fireworks. Whenever I see a good display of fireworks like we saw the other night, I cannot help but think of what is for me, is one of the most erotic passages in all of literature. Of course, I am talking about the Nausicaa chapter in James Joyce’s Ulysses. Ulysses is a book that does not shy away from sex, but there is something about this particular passage that resonates with me. The protagonist of the novel, Leopold Bloom, who is wandering around Dublin, stumbles across a firework display and has a moment, a moment with an unknown young women, that does not involve their talking or touching. Joyce writes the passage in such a manner that at least one of them, and maybe both, culminate with the final of the fireworks. Oh Leopold…
And so it goes.