When I was younger, I remember puzzling over the absence of an elevator button for the 13th floor in my grandma’s condo building.
It was just gone.
There was 12, and there was 14. But no 13.
It was a floor without a name, existing in absolute anonymity. Ignored for the sake of resale value.
Come to think of it, I don’t even think you can say “13th floor” on an elevator without being taken down by the other passengers.
It’s a no-no.
Kind of like celebrating the 4th of July in New Zealand.
No fireworks. No grills. No parades.
No sheet cakes, apple pie, ice cream, cool-whip or layered jell-O salads.
I mean, who misses out on cool-whip when given the chance?
A kind Kiwi told me the Queen would be terribly offended if the 4th of July was celebrated on her turf, in any capacity.
Well, she’s not here. Girlfriend is busy.
And besides, immigrants get to keep their holidays. It’s like a thing.
In fact, if you wear your New Zealand flag to school on the 4th, I’m deeply offended. You’ll be sent home from school.
Wait. I guess not. That only happens in the U.S.
But I miss it. I crave sitting on the dark and peaceful beach of Lake Michigan, in the fullness of summer, stretched out on a blanket watching the fireworks. My favorite part was always after the finale; once the smoke rolled in to shore like a heavy white fog. And then everyone would light a handful of sparklers to keep the celebration going just a bit longer.
That’s what I miss, even more than cool-whip.
5 comments