Sparkler?
The 4th of July was a day of mixed blessings for me. Oh, I was proud of my country sure. In the years before 1967-68, when I was also ten or under (oops!), it was hard for me not to think of the U.S. with anything but absolute pride. My parents had either fought in, or been very marked by, World War II, and the feeling of the U.S. as the ultimate good guy, the savior of the world, was strongly imprinted on me.
Already, of course, there were doubts about what was going on in Vietnam, but I felt with childish certainty (strengthened by the fact that the beginning of the war was associated with the martyred John F. Kennedy), that the U.S. had, at least, entered into that conflict trying to help people.
So what marred my childhood experience of the 4th was not any doubt in the indivisible goodness of my country and countrymen, but, well, beauty contests.
My uninformed sense is that the juvenile pageant circuit is considerably larger and more professionalized now, accompanied both by heftier prizes and far thicker applications of eyeliner.
In my day, these were extremely local events, held at our local swimming pool. Which means, yes, that they involved a bathing suit portion. As well as a talent portion. I don’t remember any evening gown portion, but occasionally there was bicycle decorating—crepe paper bunting was used. Sometimes, it seems to me that the contestants were also draped in bunting, but I have a feeling that this may have been only part of my mother’s ingenuity. In other words, I may have been the only contestant who wore bunting. (Yes, it was red, white and blue.)
There was no congeniality part—since everyone knew each other that would probably have been considered a hurtful popularity contest. (As if the rest of it wasn’t! ) (Some bitterness there?)
I don’t mean to impugn my mother, although she was the instigator of my participation in these activities. She bought the new bathing suits, arranged for whatever bunting was applied, listened and encouraged my choice of “talent”, and, after the inevitable defeat always always to a girl named Karen A. (whose full name I will not use in this internet-find-your-old-friends world), she complained bitterly at the bias and short-sightedness of the judges. (They chose Karen A., according to my mom, because her parents were super popular at the pool, i.e. they drank and partied. )
Of course, I knew there was more—even my mother would admit it eventually. Dimples. A certain sassiness of hips. A two piece suit and culique of eyeliner (even way back then.) And even more importantly — a sparky conviction which Karen A. had and I didn’t a) that the contest was fun and b) that she definitely deserved to win it.
On my mother’s behalf, she, a brunette, was born with what was then charitably called a “Roman nose.” It actually gave her face a striking handsomeness. But she grew up in the age of Shirley Temple, Ginger Rodgers, Betty Grable. And when her daughter was born short-nosed and blonde, it felt miraculous. How could a daughter with such innate advantages not win whatever contest came her way!? !
I don’t know why I kept trying. (Correction—I don’t know why my mom kept me trying.) I guess the only answer is that people repeat their mistakes. (See e.g. the U.S. government and foreign wars started ostensibly to help protect fledging “democracies”.)
I say, the day held mixed blessings. In the evening, when suburban pre-much-airconditioning Maryland finally cooled down enough for us to leave the pool, we had fireworks. Funny little black smoking worms that my brother was permitted to light on our back patio, flame-emitting cones that only my Dad could touch, eyes averted, and sparklers, many sparklers that, even as kids, we could wave about in almost any way we wished.
ManicDDaily 
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