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The Kennedys played touch football at Hyannis; our clan plays volleyball at family gatherings. This afternoon we'll gather at the mother-in-law's home for a cookout and for geriatric volleyball.

Cats and dogs can unclench for an hour or two as grandchildren, invited guests, and neighborhood strays break from their fireworks to join the feast: chicken barbecued to within an inch of its life; gooey beans and cobs of corn; homegrown tomatoes, plain and in salsas; cukes awash in sugary vinegar; slaws aslop in whipped cream � all the treats of summer.

The family's obsession with potatoes will reveal itself in the great potato salad debate: dill or mustard, which shall prevail? The cook prefers mustard, so the argument, now moot, will turn to the challenge of identifying the cook: if the potatoes are cut irregularly, Shirley; if the cubes of potato are identical to within a micron, Harriet.

After the meal, we'll hobble, waddle and belch our way over to the lawn to choose up sides for volleyball. We will balance our teams by height, weight, age, and charity. To speak of ability here would be absurd. We will untangle the net, unused since last July. We will lay out boundaries with garden hoses. Peanut galleries will form; referees will be self-appointed and ignored.

When the sky has grown dark and the uncles have grown pale, we will huff and puff back to brownies and homemade ice cream. In the meantime, the pyrotechnicians will prepare their explosive entertainments.

We will ooh and ahh, and wonder if the neighbor heard that last one hit his roof.

And so it will go, as it has always gone in the lifetimes of my kids. As a four-day weekend spent at home, this summer holiday is the best of them.

Watched:
(Monday night) Midnight in the Garden of Yada Yada. That I fell asleep does not mean others would, yaknow.

Reading:
Fay, but bursts of firecrackers distract. And tempt.