The morning feast is winding down as Ron, Linda, Peter and I get up from the picnic table overlooking the green drape of our yard on this July 4th. Sirens whine here and there. As long as we don't hear the thump of bass drums at 120 bpm, we know the parade hasn't begun. Dishes gather at the island in the kitchen. Dad seems content to manage the cleanup with Mom. She seems more intent on moving along so that she can witness the annual ritual two blocks away. Dad carefully cleans plates, scraping remaining food into the trash can or sink, piling similar sized plates on each other, and filing silverware into the dishwasher. He runs the garbage disposal which churns up and swallows the meal Dad fed it. Now he starts running water and hand washing the bigger pots and pans with a soapy froth of water that smells of lemon detergent. The lingering aroma of sausage and pancakes comforts the air that has the tension and urgency Mom brings to it with her dissatisfaction with the morning's production sprawl.

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