PAULA WHYMAN

This is a replay in honor of my brother's birthday.

On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. My family has just about every souvenir you can imagine from this event, because while Armstrong was making one small step for man, my brother was being born.

My brother would have been 43 years old today. Instead, he died nine years ago in tragic circumstances.

When we were kids, since I was the older one, it was my duty to torture my brother and his duty to continue idolizing me, regardless. So I thought I'd take this moment to clear up a couple of things, and I hope he's paying attention.

Bruce: When I said circus clowns left you on our doorstep, I wasn't being entirely honest. In truth, when they brought you home from the hospital, I was sure that you were a devious character set on removing me from the household, and that if I could only catch you I'd prove that you were really a cigar-chomping midget con-man disguised in a diaper. But year after year, you pretended to like me and to mean me no harm. What was that about? It was a clever ruse. How long, I continued to wonder, before your true goals would be unveiled?

When I was ten and convinced you that we should run away from home, we wrapped some important items in a bandanna tied to a broomstick (how I'd seen it done on TV). You were perfectly willing to come with me, but only to the end of the driveway. Why couldn't I convince you that the end of the driveway wasn't far enough?

As it is, I wish you had stayed around a little longer and closer to home.

So, this is my birthday wish for you: I imagine you're on the moon, since it might very well have been the first place you saw when you were born; there it was on the TV in the delivery room. But wherever you are, I hope the Redskins are always winning, there are no stinging insects, they always play heavy metal music, and you've become a master shredder.

You rock.

Love, your big sis and biggest fan.

Note: This is an updated version of an entry originally posted in July 2010.

The novel I'm writing is set in 1980 right around the 4th of July, and in the story, some pretty major events take place at the big neighborhood barbecue. I was thinking about this, and also thinking about how little has changed in the way I spend the 4th of July now compared with the way I spent it growing up. With the exception of the years when we used to go see the Beach Boys on the National Mall (very little of which I actually remember), what we do now to mark the day is pretty much the same. Except for the macaroni salad, which I do not miss at all. It's now PASTA salad tossed with balsamic and olive oil (hold the mayo, please). And quite possibly, there won't be any Jell-O. But Jell-O is a variable I'm not willing to predict; it shows up when you least expect it. There will be cupcakes, both homemade and store-bought, mini and full-size. My kids will want one of each, and I will say "pick one." Later, my husband and I will learn that we both said "pick one," and our kids got away with it.

Unlike the barbecue that happens in my book, I'm assuming that no one will be telling bad Richard Pryor jokes while lighting the grill. And, probably, no one will quote Emerson. Or get stoned. Or have sex behind the pool's pump room. Yes, this does all happen in my book. It did not happen to me. I want to make that clear, in case any former (or current) neighbors are reading this.

We have a parade on our street that starts in front of our house. All the kids ride bikes or scooters, and it's fun to see who got their training wheels off each year. One mom takes charge and gets everyone to stand still for photos, and there's a boombox playing a Sousa march. Then we eat a lot and swim, and the kids shoot each other with high-powered water guns while all of us liberal parents look on in horror.

So, today, I'll be wearing my 36-year-old American Bicentennial hat, which I pull out just for the occasion. We will patriotically drink beer (unless we are patriotically gluten-free), and eat burgers (unless...you know), and then feel patriotically overstuffed.

There's more to complain about regarding the State of the Union these days then there was when I was a kid (at least it seems that way), but for one afternoon, in keeping with the tradition, we'll only complain about property taxes.

Whatever your annual tradition, remember, if it contains mayonnaise, don't let it sit out too long.