Fourth of July―Blanding

Last night when we drove up the hill from Westwater and past Shirttail Junction, we found the first cell-reception in nearly four hours. I read my only text as I drove the dimly lit highway into town: “As many of you may have heard, the softball fields have been flooded. We are currently working on draining the fields so they are playable for tomorrow.”

My heart immediately sank. This was the biggest reason why I made the six-hour drive to Blanding.

Last year we were in Blanding, my beloved hometown, for the Fourth of July. We sat at the ball fields at a softball tournament called Midnight Madness. Flood lights engulfed the two ball fields with illumination. Half the town seemed to be there, sitting on blankets or in bleachers, chatting with old friends or cheering on the games. The place was alive. It was a quarter to midnight and the games would continue through the night and into the morning, hoping to finish before the parade at 10:30.

My daughter, Kaitlyn, leaned toward me and begged, “Dad, can we please do this next year? It would be sooooo fun!”

I knew it would be, so I set off during the next year to twist my work schedule in such a way that we could make the trip.

I spent the weeks preceding the tournament making phone calls to garner a team and then hours on the field honing softball skills that I hadn't used in nearly a decade. I was pumped to finally play in Midnight Madness.

That's why my heart sank when I read the text. A flooded field had never crossed my mind. I guess it made sense. On our drive here, as we drove past Salvation Knoll, we watched a lightning show dancing like a fairy beyond the rim of Comb Ridge.

This morning I woke up with eagerness and drove to the fields. The high school baseball team had been working on them all night and were now waiting for a load of sand to come. One of the coaches assured us that―barring another storm―the fields would be ready tonight.

So, here I am. Our first game draws near and I am in my hallowed hometown about to play in my very first Midnight Madness.

At a meeting with team captains, I run into a girl from high school named Brittany. She is my first cousin, once removed, but we haven't talked to each in over twenty years. She is married to another classmate who is a chiropractor in Cortez.

I ask her if her husband, Adam, is playing in the tournament. “No,” she says with a sigh. “He would prefer to sleep and then wake up early in the morning and go up on the mountain and find a bull elk. Then he's usually back in time for the parade.”

When discussing kids, she says that her son plans on spending the next school year in Blanding. “That way,” she says, “he can get the Blanding experience.”

Soon after my discussion with Brittany, it is time to play ball.

Midnight Madness is fast-paced. It has to be. There is no other way to whittle down twenty-four teams during a nighttime tournament.

Games last thirty minutes long. Each batter gets one pitch. That's it. His own teammate gets to pitch it. If he swings and misses or hits it foul, then he's out.

I will not bore you with details from our horrendous attempt to play softball. Suffice to say, we are man-handled by both teams that we play, our final game ending at 11:30 pm.

I stay and watch a few more games while Kaitlyn hangs around the fields with her cousin, Nizhoni. When we leave at 2 am, the crowds are thinning out, but still alive with people.

But this post is not about softball, but about a small town and their Independence Day celebration.

In my humble opinion, the Fourth of July celebrations in Blanding should be experienced by everyone. It is a time for families to reunite, bringing thousands of people from out-of-town. I'm sure that the size of Blanding―population just over three thousand―at least triples during the Fourth of July.

The next morning we find a shady spot on Main Street, just across the street from the old High School. We are about to watch the parade. My kids are ready with bags in hand for lots of candy. I hold my camera and a bottled water.

You never know what you're going to get at a parade in Blanding.

I remember back in the late eighties when the Federal Government was having one of its usual skirmishes with some of the townsfolk. The dispute was over cabins on the mountain. Many years earlier, the government said that some of the families could build cabins on the mountain, as long as they were actively mining. The families continued to mine and to build and use the cabins. When there became a lull in the mining industry and the mines were no longer operating, the families still continued to use the cabins. By now, these old wooden structures nestled amidst the pine and aspen were almost like family. They had been in use for nearly three generations.

But the Federal Government didn't like that. After a lengthy dispute, the Forest Service took dynamite on the mountain and blew up the cabins. That didn't sit well with local citizens.

When the Fourth of July Parade rolled around, payback was in store. A backhoe drove down Main Street. Swinging from the scooper, a dummy dressed in official Forest Service uniform, hanging from a noose.

Now, in 2015, I doubt that will happen. Our current county commissioner is in deep water with the Feds, but I'm not sure if you'll see a noose again in our local parade.

Soon the procession begins and a long stream of motorcycles scream down Main Street. There must be at least fifty of them, if not more. This ride has become tradition to honor a local hero. Jason Workman, a Navy Seal, died in 2011 from a helicopter crash in Afghanistan when his Chinook Helicopter was shot down, killing all thirty-eight soldiers on board.

The parade is is filled with the usual small-town items: tractors, horses, cheerleaders, drill team, and lots of candy. One thing that I have always admired about Blanding's parade, is that they still make floats. I mean real floats with crepe paper, fringe, arches, paint, all sorts of festooned decorations, and a theme. In the town where I live now, there are few homemade floats. Instead, most of the entries in the parade appear to be little more than business advertisements.

One of the floats that catches my attention is dedicated to “Some of our heroes.” Right away, I recognize a picture of Jason Workman and another of Nathan Winder. Nate lost his life in Iraq just a year or two before Jason. I smile and snap a couple pictures of the float. Nate was a close friend.

As it passes by, I suddenly notice a picture of my grandpa, Burdette Shumway. He is dressed in his Navy uniform with Rex Neilson. Although he didn't die at war, he truly is one of my heroes. A sudden chill enters my body and I glance over to my mom to see if she notices the picture also.

The parade lasts for nearly an hour. Not bad for a small town.

After the parade, we drive to Centennial Park at the south end of town where booths selling food sprawl across the grass. This is one of my favorite parts of the Fourth of July holiday here in Blanding.

Located just half an hour north of the Navajo Reservation, Blanding is a good mix of Anglo and Native American culture. One of the big draws of the booths comes from that culture. This year I see Navajo tacos, Navajo burgers, fry bread, roasted mutton, and even mutton stew for sale. There is also plenty of non-native food such as kebab's, roasted corn on the cob, hot dogs, and lemonade.

I find a booth selling steak sandwiches. Immediately I recognize the man behind the apron. He is Spencer Willie, a Navajo classmate of mine, whom I haven't seen in seventeen years. The best way to describe Spencer: as nice as a Teddy Bear. He recognizes me also and we shake hands. I can tell he is busy and I see the sweat percolating on his forehead. He is a little preoccupied tending flat-bread on the grill.

“You came all the way from Window Rock to cook?” I ask, hoping that I remember correctly from Facebook where he is living now.

“Yeah, we advertised all over on KTNN that we were in Blanding cooking for the Fourth of July. I think we'll get a lot of people.” (KTNN is the radio station of the Navajo Nation and the only place where you will find Merle Haggard, Pow wow music, and Navajo language all in one bundle.)

A Navajo lady working with Spencer takes over my attention and explains what the steak sandwich.

“It is steak with grilled onions and a green chili on a flat-bread called náneeskaadí. It's really good!”

It doesn't take long to sell me and soon I am handing her eight bucks and she is giving me a steak sandwich wrapped in foil and slid inside a paper bag. I walk to a grassy hill near the fence and pull my lunch out of the bag.

Two slabs of seasoned steak with a long green chili sit atop a thick tortilla. The flat-bread is at least half an inch thick and appears much healthier than the fry bread that I am used to. I take a bite and can taste the fluffiness of the bread, the tenderness of the steak, the small kick from the chili, and the sweetness of the onions. Very good!

I meander through the different booths and exchange friendly glances with old familiar faces. I don't know if they see me the way I see them. To them, I am probably one of several thousand kids who were raised in Blanding and have since moved away. They probably can't keep us all straight.

Many people I don't know, but recognize their face as a Blanding face. Some I can pinpoint as a Pugh, a Knight, a Shumway, or a Black. That may not be their last name, but they certainly have some kin blood in their veins.

The horseshoe tournament is held in the pits near the booths. This is my first year not competing in the tournament on a year that I have been in town for the holiday.

“There's still a slot open,” Troy Palmer says to me with a big smile on his face. Not only does he run the horseshoe tournament, but he umped last night for Midnight Madness. He probably hasn't slept in thirty-six hours.

“I didn't even bring my shoes,” I remark. Troy is a nice guy and was a year older than me in high school. Those close to my age are the ones I recognize most easily.

At one o'clock is the “diving for dollars” competition with the kids. I round up my two youngest daughters and we walk to the public swimming pool which is next door to the park. Along the way, we pass my niece, Nizhoni, who is playing in the four-on-four volleyball tournament on the grass of the baseball fields.

The swimming pool is packed with a couple hundred anxious munchkins lined around the edge of a pool, with dots of silver-colored coins shimmering at the bottom. Usually my wife brings the kids to this while I am playing horseshoes. But since she isn't here this year, I am gladly seeing what the fuss is all about.

The day is hot and I can feel the sun scorching the back of my neck and calves. A jump in the pool would feel really good right now. I dip my hand into the transparent water and spatter a couple handfuls on my face.

A lady with a megaphone rounds the toddlers to the shallow end of the pool―enough water to reach the middle of my shin bone―and at her call, they jump and splash into the water in search of quarters.

Then, with each succeeding group, the coins are placed in deeper water, and the challenge of scouring them from the bottom of the pool becomes more intense.

Savanah, my nine-year old, struggles to find any coins at the bottom. I don't think that she likes getting her face wet. But Jenna, who is eleven, has no problem diving to the floor of the pool and meticulously searching. With each coin she finds, she returns to the surface and hands the quarter to Savanah, who is anxiously waiting on the edge. She finds a total of $1.25.

The “free swim” immediately follows, and I decide that there is no need for me to stick around and watch my kids among a swarm young enthusiasts. Impromptu, I decide to walk next door to the air-conditioned quilt show.

I'll admit that I have never been to a quilt show before. In my youth, I helped tie a quilt at my grandma's house and again with my future wife on a date.

In this large room, several dozen quilts hang delicately for display, as if it were an art museum. Knowing that a quilt is not an easy thing to make, I admire the many hours that were spent to create the patchwork in this room.

As one who appreciates local culture, I also ponder on the art of making a quilt and how this skill was highly necessary when people didn't have the convenience of running to Wal-mart and buying a blanket. I am also saddened to think that the skill of quilting is probably in decline, and “hanging from a thread” like many of the other skills that our ancestors possessed.

The one quilt that catches my attention the most is a collage of San Juan County. I see depictions of hot air balloons in Monument Valley, the Bears Ears, South Chapel, and pioneer wagons traveling up a steep hill (probably San Juan Hill).

With a little time on my hands, I decide to drive to the football field for the seven-on-seven football tournament. My brother, Adam, is playing, and I quickly see that the field is young―very few players over the age of thirty. They all look like they were starters on the high school football team during their glory days, and are now back to prove themselves again. I get the impression that this is a version of San Juan High School all-stars from the last fifteen years. There is a lot of talent on the field, as San Juan has been a perennial powerhouse in class 2A football for the past twenty-five years.

I sit down on the grass next to the sideline and immediately begin to decipher the unique rules of the game. Only one end-zone is used. Play begins on the forty yard line and if you make it to the twenty, then you get a first down. After scoring a touch down, there are no extra-points. A one-point conversion can be scored from the five-yard line, or a two-point conversion can be scored form the ten. They play touch football, not tackle.

With less than one minute in the game, Adam's team pulls the victory and wins the tournament.

At six-thirty, I am back at the park with my three girls. We bought tickets for a BBQ pork sandwich dinner from my nephews, Gavin and Ashton, who are trying to earn money to go back east to the Scout Jamboree.

After eating at a park table, we sit on the grass for the free concert in the park. The weather is perfect right now. A cool south wind is blowing and storm clouds are brewing. Hundreds of people, just like us, are sitting on the grass, or on a blanket, or in lawn chairs.

The band does a good job, playing covers from the 50's, 60's, and 70's. Right now they are playing a couple of Santana songs. But just as they do, the wind picks up even stronger, sending gusts onto the stage that sway the speakers and threaten to topple the backdrop.

The band takes a small break, and they remove the backdrop and speakers and put up their instruments, hoping the storm will just blow by. But it doesn't. Soon, there are large bolts of lightning in the southwest, close enough that we can see the length of the bolts, as if we were on the front row of a drive-in movie.

Small patters of rain fly in from the southwest and we decide we had better pack up. I let my sister-in-law take the kids so they can play with their cousins.

I return to my mom's house. On the drive there, the storm transforms from David to Goliath. Rivulets of rainwater gurgle down the gutters while my windshield wipers turn to full-blast.

I wonder about the firework show that is scheduled for tonight at the park. It is only a few hours away and is supposed to be the culmination of Independence Day events in Blanding. Since arriving yesterday, I hear that it will be the largest in town history. A local businessman donated $25,000 to the cause. They say the show will be choreographed to music.

A good firework display is a tough thing for a small town. I remember as a kid, most of the firework shows in Blanding were lackluster, with what felt like a minute gap between each blast-off. I remember one year, when the firework show was held at Recapture Reservoir, and some sagebrush and juniper trees caught fire and burned the side of the hill.

That won't happen this year. Not with all the rain we're getting right now.

I park on the hill at my mom's house, a vantage point that is lofty enough to see into four states on a clear day. From here I watch the lightning show. It isn't as grand as it was twenty minutes earlier at the park, the rain having supplanted much of the lightning. The strikes seem more distant, still moving south to north, now moving across Brushy Basin.

The rain is constant now, dampening the juniper trees and clay that adorn the hill, and creating small puddles on the blacktop. Having faith that the firework show will go forward, I drive back to the park after a small rest at the house.

It is obvious that the rest of the town has faith also. For half a mile along both sides of the street and in the parking lot and any available space imaginable, there are cars park bumper to bumper. Other Blandingites quickly pace toward the park with umbrellas perched overhead.

The rain isn't too heavy now, just enough to mist the hair.

I walk for ten minutes, passing hundreds of people hunkered down in lawn chairs and braving the elements. I find a secluded spot away from the grass and beyond the pavilion on a mound of dirt and weeds. I settle down and set up my tripod and hold the umbrella at an angle to arrest the rain from the northern sky.

Soon, the first ball of red light is launched high into the sky and explodes into a dozen burning streaks. A boom echoes across the air and instantly, the crowd hollers and gives an approving applause.

The show begins.