Don’t mess with my hot dogs, explosions and tube tops

Scott Hollifield
Published: July 12, 2008

The key to my happiness was missing.

I put it on the kitchen counter with a grocery sack full of deliciously salty snacks sure to send my spirits and blood pressure soaring as high as a South Carolina bottle rocket.

But it was gone.

The key to my happiness, at that moment, was the lone key to my wife’s car, now sitting immobile on Independence Day in our driveway in front of my truck, which was also immobile due to that parking
situation.

Thanks to a series of odd mishaps and sheer forgetfulness, we had been down to one key for her car for a week.

On July 3, with visions of fireworks dancing in my head, we swapped vehicles for some reason and I ended up back at the house with a grocery sack full of deliciously salty snacks, which were still on the
counter the morning of the Fourth.

The lone car key, which I swore I placed there, was not.

I didn’t realize the key was missing until our 12-year-old daughter awoke at the crack of noon and announced her Fourth of July ensemble would not be complete without red, white and blue nail polish.

Aside from a flag lapel pin, nothing screams patriotism like red, white and blue fingernails chewed to the quick. Wait, it’s my nails that are chewed to the quick.

“Get in the car and we’ll go to the store,” I told her. “But hurry. The world hot dog eating championship is coming on ESPN.”

At this point, I will tell you that Independence Day is, without a doubt, my favorite holiday. It makes me happy. There’s no pressure to buy gifts, no obligation to say how thankful I am for everything, and
no kids banging on the door demanding candy.

The Fourth means explosions and hot dogs and parades and beer and women in tube tops and just about everything that makes America the greatest nation between Canada and Mexico. I start each
Fourth watching Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest live from Coney Island and end it gazing at fireworks lighting up the night sky, happy that my forefathers had the courage to flee from debts and
jealous husbands and settle here.

So, I looked for the key to the car to make the nail polish run to stop the whining that was ruining my happy day. It was not on the counter. It was not in the drawer where I empty the contents of my
pockets each night. The only thing I could do was transfer responsibility for its disappearance to my wife.

“Honey, what did you do with the last key to your car?”

At this point, we shift to a three-way conversation. Try to keep up.

“I didn’t do anything with it. Don’t try to blame me.”

“I need red, white and blue nail polish!”

“Nobody’s getting anything if we can’t move the %$#! car!”

“But I need nail polish!”

“And I need to watch Kobayashi vs. Joey Chestnutt! (Sadly, I realized I could name two men who stuff wieners down their gullets but could not name all nine Supreme Court Justices.)

We spent the next hour alternately shouting at each other and searching the house. I feared the key would never turn up. Not only would my happy Fourth be ruined, our immobile vehicles would sit in the
driveway and rust while we spent our lives walking the ditch lines and hitching rides to the store from sketchy dudes in serial-killer vans.

We searched improbable places — the mailbox, the attic, inside the toilet tank. No key.

After I dumped the trash onto the kitchen floor and unsuccessfully pawed through its contents, I opened the cupboard for the dustpan to sweep up spilled coffee grounds.

And there, on a hook, was a long-forgotten second spare car key, shining like the Liberty Bell. I held it aloft and dubbed it Francis Scott Key.

“I have saved the Fourth!” I bellowed.

Later, under the night sky, full of deliciously salty snacks, our ears ringing and one of us sporting red, white and blue fingernails, we forgot about the harsh words uttered earlier. Well, I did. My wife was
still a little ticked off. But that’s another story.

Scott Hollifield is editor/general manager of The McDowell News in Marion, N.C. Contact him at P.0. Box 610, Marion, N.C. 28752 or e-mail .