A Fourth of July Tribute

“Yell-oh! Yell-oh!” My mom’s heavily accented voice exclaimed every time she spotted a yellow flower or garment.

I distinctly remember that when she accompanied our family, regardless of how preoccupied we were with our daily tasks, such as running errands, her outburst would cause us to pause in our tracks, focus on, for example, yellow roses and transcend ourselves in order to appreciate their beauty.

My mom sounded like a yellow canary chirping in perfect rhythm, “Yell-oh! Yell-oh!” After about three minutes, we reluctantly interrupted her captivated state and peeled her away in order to resume our daily activities.

I became reminiscent of these halcyon times when yellow wildflowers caught me off guard as I was walking at the end of my friend Michelle’s cul-de-sac. All at once, my mom’s voice reverberated through the sky in tandem with a radiant sun.

Ironically, despite planting numerous perennial flower seeds last year, only a single variety of the daisy blossomed. The color? Yellow — a vibrant shade of Yell-OH!

My mom not only had a penchant for all things yellow, but actually, all things, down to a modest piece of bread that the 98-pound woman stashed in her fake leather purse. And, most times, before consuming it, she’d kiss the crust in gratitude.

As I have previously written about, my mother was a proud American and WWII survivor who endured forced labor under the Nazis during her youth. Prior to her passing in 2015, she exhibited profound gratitude for each moment of the day.  Many Americans, myself included, may require reminders of the things to be grateful about. I believe that for most American immigrants, gratitude starts the minute a pair of feet hit free soil.

The Fourth of July is a time to celebrate America’s independence and all that it stands for. It’s a day filled with parades, fireworks, and most importantly, the colors that represent this great nation —red, white and blue. But for me, there’s one more color that holds a special place in my heart — yellow — yell-oh!

You see, my mom, was not only one of the most grateful persons I’ve every known, but also one of the most patriotic people. (Don’t these two qualities go hand in hand?) Additionally, she was a proud mother of two veterans who courageously served in active duty during the Vietnam War.

To her, each day held the same revelry as the Fourth of July, Memorial Day, Flag Day and every other holiday on the American calendar. She would joyfully declare, “Every day is Sunday!”

She also enthusiastically expressed her appreciation for America by exclaiming: “God Bless America!” to everyone she encountered — from store clerks to librarians, you name it.

Don’t think though that America handed her an easy life on a silver platter. She and my dad experienced discrimination and were exploited by many individuals. Every Monday, for instance, a bulldog of a neighbor would plop an enormous pile of dirty laundry (excluding any yellow clothes!) on our porch, causing my mom to groan from the weight when lifting the basket. Throughout the week, Mom tirelessly ironed and starched each garment while juggling her other responsibilities, a skill she acquired firsthand from the Nazis’ emphasis on producing flawless results. The same neighbor would retrieve the laundered articles on Friday or Saturday, while simultaneously expressing dissatisfaction with my mother’s work. Consequently, she would begrudgingly offer my mother meager compensation consisting of only a few coins or occasionally one dollar.

On Sundays, my parents never failed to attend church. I can vividly imagine my mother prostrating herself on the ground in prayer, grateful for the opportunity to worship her personal understanding of God without fear of being subjected to violence or even death. On her way out, Mom never failed to contribute half of her earnings into the charitable receptacle of the church.

“It’s for the poor people. God Bless America,” she’d whisper to me after we left church.

In the final decade of her life, my mother grieved the passing of her eldest son, Mike, as a result of illness; nonetheless, she retained an unwavering appreciation for her freedom to mourn openly and, in fact, helped others who suffered comparable loses.

When one considers the experiences of enduring war, division, hatred and brutality or suffering from inadequate footwear during blizzard-like weather conditions, minor discomforts faced by those in the middle- and, certainly, upper-class, such as a power outage for the day, pale in comparison.

Regardless of the hardships she endured in America, my mother never lost her faith in America even during its darkest moments. Her attention remained fixed on the selfless acts of our nation’s forefathers and their successors, including her own sons, in upholding our liberty and autonomy.

When I find my self amid personal struggles, I am grateful for her legacy that rarely fails to empower me. Fortunately, during summer months, her positive spirit is especially evident as I stroll along the path towards my house and behold the sunny faces of flowers beaming at me. Meanwhile, a melodious tune chirps within my mind, singing out “Yell-oh! Yell-oh!”

As we celebrate the holiday today, let us remember those who have gone before us and the traditions they held dear. Let us honor their memory and carry on their legacy, whether we wear red, white, blue or even yellow — Yell-oh! —because we are FREE to do so! Happy Fourth of July!