Recapturing The Red, White And Blue

Marge and Doc Loman had hearts as big as their giant pudgy arms that wrapped around you when you jumped off your boat onto their dock. Their big, hearty twangs, Cincinnati style, rang out every 4th of July with Marge’s piercing laugh breaking crystal and Doc’s booming laugh breaking your eardrums. Their broad personalities matched their broad decorating style, which also matched, by no coincidence, their deeply patriotic fervor.Marge and Doc Loman’s cottage on the sandy, birch-filled beach of Walloon Lake, Michigan, was a paean to the American spirit. A simple clapboard cottage modest in size and original intent had been dressed for the inaugural ball. White clapboard, yes, but window frames were painted in red and mullions in blue. The rafter tails alternated red, then blue, and the roof was shingled in red asphalt shakes. The chimney was tipped off in vibrant blue with a slightly protruding chimney pot in soot black.

Their porch floor was glossy sapphire topped with white wicker whose braided borders were decked out in red. A white fabric with a quilt pattern of red stars intermingled with red polka dots wrapped round all the cushions, which were piped in blue.

Their flimsy screen door, painted blue, would snap shut behind you as you entered. So tightly wound was its spring that you usually got swatted in the behind once down Marge’s 4th of July rabbit hole. On top of the floorboards painted in red and white sat giant downy blue sofas that swallowed you if you crept close to them. Pinwheel quilted pillows were stuffed in the corners of the quicksand cushions—barely able to stay afloat. A ship’s wheel topped with glass stood sentinel beside the sofa, acting as a coffee table if one’s arm could reach far enough from the body-sucking sofa to put a drink down.

Some of the windows were furnished with glass shelves that held translucent cobalt-blue glass in the shapes of George Washington’s head, Betsy Ross’ body and skirt, and a stray milk of magnesia bottle.

Doc Loman would show us his antique collection of fishing lures which Marge had edited down to red, white and blue—though he snuck some really cool green, orange and yellow lures into it for us to see. However, if Marge waddled by, his giant hand would cup over those rogue lures!

The air always hung thick with frying chicken and the deviled egg plates, while large roundels of kaleidoscopic sliced egg halves oozing with molten yolk stuffing enticed us all to the giant farm table. A large flowered, red and white quilt hung over the beaten pine table, and baskets with blue and white gingham cloths could barely conceal the saffron colored cornbread which pushed its way up. Summer green salad in a giant pressed-glass bowl swelled with tomatoes, radishes, cucumbers and scallions. Thick, cumulus mounds of white mashed potatoes steamed away in a large red Fiestaware bowl.

Three hungry boys (though pre-fed by our mother as not to embarrass her and dad with our ravenous appetites) were let loose at the crêpe paper starting line and allowed to heap our red, white and blue spangled paper plates with the spoils of the 4th of July.

The Lomans’ long white dining table, with two round tables placed at either end to accommodate the guests, was decorated with every manner of Revolutionary War memorabilia from toy cannons to a small wooden ship with Native Americans heaving tea trunks over the side.

While we ate the bounty, the parents swilled down a special red brew, stuck with a little blue sword on which was lanced a small pearl white onion. As the pitcher of this red brew grew shallow, Marge would refill it from what looked like a large lobster pot. Voices soared as my dad sat at the white lacquered upright and played, “Blue Skies,” and “God Bless America.” Though notes on the upright clinked because it was out of tune, no one noticed, because their own loud voices were also out of tune.

After some weepy versions of “Smile,” and “Old Man River,” a couple of pops would be heard outside. Doc and Marge would grab all their red, white and blue Pendleton blankets, and rush us to their old mahogany Chris Craft. As we jumped onto their boat, Doc would leap over us to pump the rubber gas balloons and then start the boat with its distinctive low rumble like an aggressive thunderstorm roaring down a canyon. The pops we heard were the Walloon Association’s signal that the fireworks were about to begin and the lake would soon fill with all manner of craft. Given the amount consumed by local imbibers, it was remarkable that a boating disaster never occurred as we all sped to the center of the lake.

In the black of a night sky salted with a crystal clear Milky Way, hundreds of little floating islands, “oohed” and “ahhhhhed” and applauded the dazzling chrysanthemum bursts and the glittering fountain showers of the 4th of July fireworks. Wrapped in our red, white and blue woollies, transfixed by the dancing wonderland, fried chicken and blueberry pie in our bellies, we knew that life could never be better.