Hilton Head Vol. I: Fake Family Photo

Family photographs are deceptively benign. Plastered smiles, docile behavior, uniformed attire, and contrived conviviality –everyone’s laughing- all belie the truth behind the perfect portrait of domesticity. What precedes the iconic picture on the scenic sand dune before everyone dons the white shirt and khaki shorts? I’ll tell you.

Fourth of July found us nestled in our lovely villa in Hilton Head Island- an idyllic paradise for Type A Yankees whose winter survival depends on this antebellum respite. Strolling through WASP-infested Palmetto Dunes, one is bound to audience conversations that begin with “When we were in Rome last summer” or observe power-walkers pausing only to chug a Perrier. (Even Kenny Chesney purchased a modest 17,000 sq. foot palace here.) Church attendance that morning seemed to assure the sanctimonious success of the holiday- satisfied in our pious punctuality and further delighted to learn of our daughter’s “perfect” performance in Sunday School. However ironic, though, the Fourth truly ended in a spectacular bang. Slowly deteriorating, the day began to unravel even before we foraged through the throngs at Shelter Cove to capture the photo of our family "enjoying" the patriotic magic of the night.

Admittedly, Jason advised that perhaps the collective melt-downs at dinner might be a foretaste of the explosive behavior to come. He was right (a painful admission). While Jason is cautious, I tend towards (sincere, good-willed?) impetuousness. Never will I permit a holiday to pass without properly hailing its advent with appropriate celebratory pomp. So, off we went looking like a mobile American flag in our red, white and blue.

Cognizant of the precarious disposition of our tiny dependents, we immediately captured the requisite photo. For which, bribery, coercion and threats against the baby doll were wielded to assure those sincere smiles. After making that memory, we found the only remaining, premium fireworks seating…in the dirt. Killing time until dark afforded my children the luxury of a public tantrum, during which some lovely father sympathetically confided, “It will get better.” Oh, and it did.

The fireworks began and we only knew this because we could HEAR them. We picked the wrong “premium seats” (in the dirt). Hustling the children into the road, we were finally able to awkwardly stand and watch them on our tip-toes. Evidently, the majesty of the colorful display was lost on Eowyn who kept loudly inquiring in a disappointed whine, “Where are the fireworks, Daddy? Where are they? I want to see them.” Apparently, she thought we were coming to see Fire-trucks, and was not to be consoled by this trifling light display.

Wisely (or so we thought), we departed exactly 45 seconds before the finale to beat the crowds. Despite the availability of our stroller AND Baby Bjorn, both unhappy children were in our arms, while we followed the snaking pathway in the pitch black towards our car. Then it happened. I was walking smartly…and then, I fell, hard, with Caid in my arms, into a sewer drainage ditch. Let me repeat. Into a sewer drainage ditch. With my baby. And I could not get out by myself. Adding insult to injury, my strapless shirt had fallen below the bust-line. That is right: under garment exposure to the amassing crowds that hastened to see the woman emerge from a sewer drainage ditch. Mortified, aching, dirty and miserable, I was only gratified that Caid escaped unscathed. This may have forever ended our celebration of the Fourth of July; it was just not worth the family photo.

...stay tuned...