Hush puppies cooked to a golden brown.
Around 1910, following the tragic deaths of four brothers and a nephew in a storm at sea, a cod fisherman and his wife, with their family, left Boat Harbor, Newfoundland, to settle in Florida. My father-in-law, the youngest male of ten children, was five years old when his family immigrated to the United States. We found the immigration records for the entire family, including my husband’s dad documented on Ellis Island when we toured New York City. Over time, many in the family moved to the Georgia coast, some to fish commercially; some to work as craftsmen in the local boat building industries.
Three decades later, at age 35, my father-in-law applied for U. S. citizenship. He received his Naturalization Certification on February 23, 1942.
After both of their parents had died, my husband, his two brothers and a sister dispensed with all belongings, Among the many items my husband saved was his dad’s Certification of Naturalization which we framed for display. At the time of his application, he was employed as a metal worker in the wartime ship building industry in Brunswick. We also have on display in our home, his handmade metal tool box housing his metal working tools.
To become an American citizen in 1942, one must have lived in the United States as a legal resident for at least five years. If married to a US citizen, as he was, he must have lived in the United States for at least three years. Also, one must have been 18 years old; did not make any other country a permanent home, had no criminal record, could speak, write and read English, knew the history and government of the United States; pledged allegiance to the United States and accepted the principles of the U. S. Constitution.
Evidently, the Alien Registration Program, initiated at the start of U.S. A. involvement in W.W.II, prompted my father-in-law, a hard working man who could repair just about anything that ever broke from appliances to furniture, from boats to lawn tools, from motors to plumbing, to apply for his citizenship papers. After registering as required by law, this master carpenter who had attended school in the U. S. and worked on the restoration of Williamsburg, took the oath for citizenship. After the war ended, he returned to his seafaring heritage as a shrimp fisherman. We also have his blue wooden tool chest with his wood working tools.
As U. S. legislators wrestle with immigration reform this year, we have been reminded of how relatively easy it used to be, almost a century ago, for immigrants to move to the United States and eventually become citizens. Certainly, changes that come with the passage of time make reforms necessary. And while we citizens want to be protected from other country’s criminals , we also realize that almost all of us, if we so choose to investigate, can trace our heritage to immigration from another country. And while some may trace their roots to the Mayflower, only Native Americans can lay claim to being indigenous.
Regardless of how or when our ancestors arrived on American soil, this experiment in democracy that the U. S. Constitution sets forth is certainly worth celebrating annually on July 4. More importantly, we should consciously appreciate it year round.
While my in-laws were alive, our family often celebrated the Fourth of July with a fish fry on the banks of Troupe Creek. Always, the fishermen in the family had caught plenty for the main course. My mother-in-law could whip up the best batch of hush puppies and the rest of us supplied the side dishes. She was also famous for always inviting a few extra friends to join us each year. We never knew how many to plan for, so we always went overboard in the amount of food we prepared. After dark, we sat along the creek bank and watch firework displays across the waterways on St. Simons Island.
And while this annual gathering required a lot of work and preparation, the celebration embraced America at its best - the great outdoors, the abundance of food and fellowship, the appreciation of a country which had adopted our children’s ancestors.
When I was growing up in Dallas, my parents and their friends celebrated with a picnic breakfast in one of the city parks. They chose this type of celebration because the early hour beat both the crowds and the triple digit heat of July in Texas.
These days, our Fourth picnics are often held at our home. In keeping with tradition, we usually have a fish fry, including a granddaughter’s favorite - hush puppies made from my mother-in-law’s recipe. And we, too, sit along the bank of Hickory Creek to watch several firework demonstrations in the distance.
I think one of my favorite comedians, the late Erma Bombeck, captures the essence of this annual celebration with a smile. “You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4, not with a parade of tanks and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism.”
It’s so true. Our many local parades are not designed to intimidate us Americans to fear military might, but rather to remind us we enjoy a rare freedom to celebrate however we want - as long as we don’t hurt anyone else. Happy Fourth of July.
2013
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