July 2, 2009 — As the Fourth of July holiday draws closer, I find myself increasingly excited about the promise of getting together with family members, picnicking at the lake, and the one time of the year when blowing things up is socially acceptable.

Mostly, I’m just looking forward to the blowing things up part.

Granted, there are always minor variations within the generalities of any “Fourth of July” holiday — some picnics may be at Claremore Lake, some may be at Oologah Lake, and some may be at Lake Wobegon (what can I say, but my mom’s a big Garrison Keillor fan).

But the camaraderie, good times, and the “ooh”-ing, “ah”-ing, and “run for your life, you idiot”-ing that accompanies my somewhat hit-and-mostly-miss firework lighting technique are veritable Fink family traditions.

Of course, even within exceptions, there can be exceptions.

For me, last Fourth of July proved to be one such lollapalooza of an exception. Virtually nothing I expected from my Independence Day came to pass, and things I wouldn’t have expected to happen, did.

Instead of fireworks, there was a fire, instead of rockets, there were rocks, and instead of a big family gathering, there was only me, my sister, and the long drive home.

To try to make a long story short:

During the early months of 2008, my elderly mother was embroiled in a lawsuit, wherein she was being taken to court in Sequoyah County to substantiate that the property she had been living on for the past 30 years, did in fact, belong to her.

To reiterate: she was having to go to court to prove what was hers was hers.

This came about as, in the months preceding the many court cases, because of health reasons, my mom allowed her “handy man” (who later was found to be less than handy) to move in with her, taking up occupancy in my old bedroom, no less.

The thinking was he would be able to keep an eye on her, should she need anything, but the reality proved quite different.

Shortly after moving in, his then-common-law wife followed, as did her multiple indoor long-haired pets. It bears mentioning that my mother is on oxygen and has severe breathing problems.

After several months, my mom moved into an assisted living care facility, and the couple — whom I shall only refer to as “the Davises” — claimed she sold them the house and the property at a cost so absurdly low, she may as well have been giving it to them.

She didn’t and she wasn’t, but it was nevertheless made to prove in court that what had always been hers, still was hers, and that the Davises were little more than opportunistic squatters.

Also, Mr. Davis had a strange fixation with sheep. I’m just sayin’.

Several months and expensive court appearances later, my mother was vindicated when the jury ruled in her favor, giving the Davises two months to leave the premises.

It was a victory for my mom, but I rested less than easy, as the Davises were still living in the house built by my mom, dad, and myself.

In the end, it turned out to be a Pyrrhic victory, as the day before the Davises were to be out of the house and off the property, my mom’s home burned down, taking with it decades of memories and costing her several hundred thousand dollars in estimated value.

While it was suspected that this was a final act of contempt on behalf of the Davises, the fire marshal told us the blaze could be classified as nothing more than “of undetermined origin.”

For the rest of us, however, the details surrounding the fire proved far too coincidental to be a coincidence.

So, last year’s “exceptional” Fourth of July had less to do with Roman candles and cherry bombs for me than it did with a long and winding roadtrip to Vian, where my sister and I surveyed the remains of my childhood home.

Even a year later, it’s strange to try and articulate the feelings of looking through what used to be my bedroom window, and seeing only twisted metal and smoldering rocks.

Adding insult to injury, while my sister and I were still on site, the Davises drove up, demanding access to the property to finish picking up their odd scraps left behind.

Mrs. Davis got particularly irate when my sister refused to let her come on to the property to retrieve a live trap (which she did anyway), culminating in the Davises speeding off — I never knew you could peel out on a dirt road — with Mrs. Davis yelling “I hope alla y’all burn in hell.”

Classy.

Yes, not quite the Fourth of July I’d had in mind for that year.

But here’s the thing:

I can’t pretend that reflecting on my own experiences of last Fourth of July bring me anything but frustration — our family is still paying for court costs that should have never been incurred, I’ve been robbed of the one tangible project that my late father and I worked together on, and the “bad guys” essentially got away, yelling obscenities and cursing my family at us as they did so.

All this gives me cause to reflect, but, as a good friend recently reminded me, “it’s okay to reflect on something, just don’t stare into that mirror for too long.”

Good advice, both when it comes to reflecting on good and bad times — there’s nothing wrong with looking over your shoulder from time to time, but if take too long, you can lose sight of where you’re headed, and I prefer to look forward, not back.

Granted, I did allow myself to slip into a “revenge” mindset for about 10 minutes that day, but I quickly snapped out of that.

One truism of life is this: Harboring a grudge rarely hurts anyone other than the grudge-holder. To spend my time in resentment or “plotting” what would amount to as payback would, in the end, really hurt no one but myself.

And quite frankly, I like myself a little too much for that.

So, while my own memories of the Fourth may now include tears shed over the remnants of my childhood home, moreover, they will always include the laughter of my wife and my sons, the smell of a lit punk as I try to light fireworks without killing myself, the smiles of dear friends, and the taste of cold watermelon on a hot July evening.

And THOSE are certainly memories to which I look forward to making more of.

n Tom Fink is a staff writer with the Claremore Daily Progress.