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Ripe.
By Stephanie Kemp







We always have a bowl of lemons (from our neighbor) on our counter.
They look nice.
We try to remember to use them.
Often we forget until green mold claws its way from the bottoms to the the tops of the sunny ovals, reminding us that we mustn’t waste anything ever, and also to drink more hot water.

With lemon.

(We are trying to be healthy optimists. Plus who wants to be the family with decorative lemons?)

Yesterday was the 4th of July.

It is always a strange day for this American, even though I am always grateful to be here, even and especially, when America is batshit. (This can happen if you have been lucky enough to see enough of other parts of the world.)

We don’t do a parade.
We don’t do a country club or a beach club or an annual pool party with friends.
We don’t go to an official fireworks show and throw down a blanket for watermelon and fried chicken and potato salad eating, while sipping lemonade or contraband beer or wine in solo cups.

We don’t dare spend the day at the beach, as it is the busiest day of the year way out here on our edge of the Pacific.

I always feel a little guilty that my girls don’t know the magic of what the 4th of July can be.
What it was to me, growing up in Michigan with all of those sparkly kid fun and country affirming things. What it was when the Bicentennial was coming soon! and/or recent enough to make us think that this Great American Experiment might actually last forever.

That said, we have accidentally carved out a template for an interesting day:

A stolen trip to the beach in the early morning hours, in and out (and back home on our mountain) before the madness finds its footing.

Made from scratch tiny cheese cakes topped with raspberries and blueberries hand delivered to our friends and neighbors. (Usually the cheese cakes form the American flag, but last year we made it French, in honor of Simone Veil and after the tragedy in Highland Park.)

Ping pong table set up and an open garage door for any/all to come pick up a paddle or say hi. (Mini fridge stocked and camping chairs pulled out for friends, fans or competitors.)

Something on the grill for dinner and fireworks viewed from our balcony. Beer in bottles or wine in glasses, everything is above board when we are at home.

We can see insane fireworks from our balcony. Official ones (Dodger Stadium and multiple city displays off in the distance) and bootlegged versions (any and everywhere else - near, far, over houses, park land, dry brush, canyon trails, commercial and residential streets of all sizes and ambitions, thirsty trees - you name it, we see it.)

We had no idea we would have such a mid summer home owning perk when we bought our house in 2006. We moved in on the 3rd of July and just happened to notice fireworks in the distance after a day of unpacking boxes and taking a break once we finally got our one year old daughter to sleep in her new room. There were far fewer fireworks in 2006. They were distant and silent. We couldn’t believe how gorgeous they were. How lucky we were. Everything felt like a secret. Our happy accident. Who were these home owning grown ups watching far off fireworks and sipping wine (although it was probably beer at that age and after a hot day of unpacking) while their baby slept?

The 4th of July was suddenly my favorite holiday.

But back to Ripe……

Yesterday we took the girls to the beach. They were excited. (Were they?)

We had accepted an invitation from my best friend (Irish), her husband (Argentinian), daughter (American) and dog (Labradoodle) to come over for lunch after our early morning beach steal. My friend also loves quality not quantity visits and was comforted by our need to get out of dodge (aka Venice Beach on the 4th of July) before the real madness began. Plus our former 1 year old/now 18 year old had to get to her job at an ice cream shop in Pasadena by 6pm and our other daughter (American, 15) was taking the train to meet a friend and walk around Figueroa (Northeast LA’s version of Main Street) hoping to end her day with a Baja Blast Freeze from Taco Bell.

We forgot to make the cheesecakes.
The ping pong table never got set up.
The lovely fireworks over our balcony have turned into an Armageddon preview meets the Blitz with a dash of the Jessie’s Girl scene from Boogie Nights.

And……..

I said something mean to my friend, which is why I am typing this at 4:30 in the morning and trying to write about everything (else) that felt strange about the day.

I totally wanted to see my friend and her family. (Is this true?)
She totally wanted us to come over for lunch. (Is this?)

Well, at least our daughters wanted to see each other and our husbands were game.

And these are old, old, best, best friends, so we all knew it would be fun and easy.

Chips and salsa.
Smashburgers and fries.
Margaritas.
I would make cookies and my husband would bring bloodies.

A gorgeous sunny day.
We would sit in the garden.

There is something that can happen when you are off your footing with people who knew you when you were on it.

Especially after you have spent the last few hours on a solo beach walk while your husband and daughters played in the surf, while you just sort of missed your mom and your dad and your sisters and your cousins and your childhood and - this is a new one! - your career.  The missing wasn’t new (accept for the career part), but the puzzle of fitting the formerly familiar pieces together was.

Like everything else at the moment, my solo beach walk felt different.

Still beautiful.
Still soul fueling.
Still gratitude inducing.

But……
Also…….

Why am I weeping?
Where is that little boy’s grown up?
Is that guy gonna clean up his dog’s shit?
How is that paddle boarder going to get back in from so far out and come through that crashing white wall safely?
What if she gets tired?
Where are the life guards?
Why is my skin turning into bacon even though the sun isn’t out and I have on sunblock and a hat and sunglasses and a scarf over my shoulders?
Who is the maker of that blobby shapeless shadow running away from the waves, following me?
How did I get this bruise on my arm? Why won’t it heal?
Whose feet are these? Why are they so wide? What happened to the toes?
Do I even like to swim in the ocean anymore?
Is my husband making sure our kids are safe even though they are 18 and 15?
Did we teach them how to swim properly? Well enough? In time?
Is my husband safe? Who will save him?
Where are the fucking life guards?
The poor life guards!
I can’t believe we forgot to make the cheese cakes.

It was time to go to our friends.
My family was drying off and I was still all bundled like one of those beach strolling ladies I used to judge from the ocean’s edge while on a vigorous barefoot run in my twenties.

I could feel my edges curdling, but still hoped for good things at the garden barbecue.

I was grateful for:

My New Sunglasses (the sun was finally out and my beach walk weepers were burning and puffy and sunblock salty).

My Big Hat (my fuck you hair was extra fuck you-y and often led to unpleasant questioning from my friend, who believes in professional haircuts, even on a normal day.)

My Out of Character Light Blue Blowin’ in the Wind Parachute Pants, (which I wore hoping might steal focus from my increasingly unfamiliar feet, now also fending off sea salt and sand with a dash of tar on really old toe nail polish. I wish I had worn jeans and boots today, for my day at the beach and my friend’s lovely garden party.)

We got to my friend’s house at 12:27. (If you are time you are already late! We still tell our children, annoyingly, because they already know it in their bones.)

The food and the garden were delicious and gorgeous. Our friends had gone all out. The girls (childhood friends turned somewhat estranged teenagers) seemed to find a groove fairly quickly. My husband talked (and solved) leaky faucets and Smitten Kitchen recipes with my friend while I sat in the sun catching up with her husband wishing I was in the shade, but not making a stink. I was delighted that he, too, was wearing sunglasses and a big hat, not even jealous (or judging) that his hat had red white and blue detail and was also worn on Voting Days. (I thought he said Boating Days. He looks like the best kind of boater, with or without the hat.)

Things were going well.

Until.

My friend noticed my feet.
Then commented on my toes.

What is going on there?
Is that mud?
Why would you have colored polish on your toes?!

(This was over chips and salsa and despite the best efforts of my parachute pants.)

And then several (but not nearly enough) minutes later…

This same best friend challenged both my sunglasses and my hat over burgers. (Her husband was sitting next to me wearing both of his - after having gamely moved the big umbrella all over the garden like a trooper, unsuccessfully trying to keep us all in the shade as we celebrated our country).  

Why are you hiding?
I can’t even see you under there.

And of course, my response was awesome:

Why do you give a shit?
What I wear on my head or my eyes?

(I was proud of myself for not bringing up the prior toe conversation here, as if it was proof that I was not unreasonable or poorly raised.)

Nothing shuts down the fun of a July 4th (or any day) Garden Party Get Together like a nice response from a guest like me.

Especially when the stunned hostess (you know, my still - hopefully - best friend) responds with:

I just wanted to see your eyes.

The husbands (one still in his unchallenged glasses and hat, the other sitting in full shade) started moving on to safe topics like affirmative action and Dobbs, submersibles and AI, how the fuck can anyone pay for college and should we have some coffee?

My friend and I regrouped (she was very well raised) but I realized that it’s not just my toes and eyes that have become salty and unrecognizable.

That even grown ups need to find their groove when they haven’t seen each other in a while.

That sometimes (or all times) you don’t want people to see your still puffy from your crying beach walk eyes or judge your just doing their best feet…Especially if these people remember your original ones.

This includes you.

And as for the 4th of July?

I have always felt more at home on the 5th of July, even when fireworks were more lovely than scary and we weren’t “riding the early waves of the possible grand finale of late stage capitalism.” (This was my contribution to the garden party conversation once I finally removed my glasses and hat - a real treat to the very end.)

Given my post holiday reset (aided by a good night’s sleep courtesy of a Tylenol PM enlisted to help block out the neverending celebratory sonic booms), I will call my friend to thank her again for a lovely day and hope she answers.

Then I will drink some hot water with lemon while I make tiny cheesecakes for my neighbors, even though I liked it better when I was jogging barefoot on the beach in my early adulthood, judging people.

(Or maybe I wasn’t judging anyone, because I wasn’t so ripe then. )

God Bless America.

(I mean this, America. I know how it feels to be off your footing with people who knew you when you were on it, remember?)