July 4th

We were going to roast a pig. In our back yard. A whole pig. I mean, that was the plan. I was skeptical and certain that roasting a pig in one’s back yard in Brooklyn would win us a very expensive ticket.

My roommates, Ryan and Robin, were into it; doing research, making phone calls, really trying to make the pig roast happen. My first thought was that we should make a documentary about it.

They put in a valiant pig search before giving up, and my documentary never really got off the ground, but the party-the party was always a sure thing. We had planned it in the middle of our first Humboldt Street July Fourth BBQ, exactly one year earlier.

“We should do this every year,” I remember Ryan saying. “Like a tradition.”

Eleven and a half months later, we decided that version 2.0 would have to far surpass its predecessor, “but let’s save some room so we can pull off version 3.0 without too much trouble,” I mentioned.

Ryan went shopping and bought tons of food. This year, we would make our own burgers (we still have some frozen patties left over from last year in the freezer). We bought more beer, invited more people and decided that we needed three barbeque grills to handle all of the food.

Mark brought over his iPod speakers; Robin’s were recently stolen (see my next column).

I’m not sure when it happened, but at a certain point on the Fourth of July, the back yard of Humboldt Street became packed. It was sizing up quickly as a very solid sequel to its original.

Old faces and new friends mixed together and stayed dry under the blue tarp that Rob and Ryan constructed the night before, when they saw dreaded rain on the weather report. We had been nervous that people wouldn’t show up. But they were not deterred.

Ryan stood behind the three grills; he wore a blue striped apron and matching headband. It was as if he was conducting a symphony as he casually flipped burgers and grilled kabobs.

Visions of Dylan at Bethel Woods from the weekend before still played in my head. I haven’t been listening to much else since. I recently purchased “Bob Dylan at Budokan” and “Before the Flood.” Both include rocking versions of “It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding),” which is my current favorite Dylan song. It’s been my favorite before, but it shifts quite often.

I stood in the midst of the party, a beer in my hand, a stagger in my step as I watched the steady stream of water flowing off of the tarp into the only unoccupied area of the entire backyard. I was overtaken with reflection. For a moment, everything seemed so simple. It was so obvious that this is what is important: friends, food, good times.

And here I was, thankful to have had a hand in organizing the party, thankful that the tarp was holding, thankful that all of my friends had come to share the day.

My eyes roamed around the party-noting how at times the mix of people that one person is friends with is surprising.

At 9:00 p.m., we left the party in a big group and walked to my friend Mark’s roof to watch the fireworks. The rain was really coming down, but it didn’t faze me.

The day had been a success. There will most likely be a third annual Humboldt Street BBQ, so mark your calendars now. We’ll either be roasting a pig, screening a movie about roasting a pig, or listening to whatever my favorite Dylan song is at the time. There are so many to choose from.

- Zachary Stuart-Pontier