Here's To Us All

by Molly Ivins

I think this holiday is not just about the Foundin' Daddies and those who gave the last full measure of devotion, it is also a celebration of us. All of us. And on this day, we are permitted to set aside our culture wars and political battles and restatements of earnings (I personally would like to restate my earnings from last year: I lost $3.8 billion. I forgot to mention until just now) and enjoy the fact that we are, on the whole, by and large, really quite nice people -- friendly, hard-working and only a little peculiar.

OK, so we should go on a diet, could use remedial work in education and need Franklin D. Roosevelt back again -- part of the Fourth is that we get to overlook our failings for a day.

On this joyous Natal Day, I would especially like to salute all of us who are not, frankly, all that good at what we love to do. Here's to everyone in this country who ever dreamed about playing Major League Baseball -- and didn't make it. Didn't make it to the minors, either. To everyone who plays City League softball or coaches Little League or umpires at junior high games. To all the car dealers and insurance agents who give money to the Y for the youth league because they never got to the Yankees -- but there might be a kid right here in Mudville who will.

And, of course, this includes everyone who loves to play football, drag racing, hockey, socccer, tennis, golf, lacrosse, track and field events, running, cricket, croquet, golf, handball, hockey, Ping-Pong, jai alai, rowing, diving, squash and volleyball. Also, darts and tiddlywinks. After all, we live a country where you can't even order a coffee without answering the question, "Do you want that with regular, 2 percent or skim?"

And here's to everyone who loves to sing, and pick and play, and who would have loved to be able to make a living at it, but turned out not to be Maria Callas or Madonna or Engelbert Humperdinck. Here's to all the members of all the choirs and the glee clubs, and all the junior high music teachers, and those who sing at campfires, and those who go to the bluegrass festivals and jazzfests. Here's to the folks in the civic chorales and barbershop quartets who perform at the old folks' home, and to the conjunto bands in South Texas that will never make a market bigger than Laredo, but who do pump out the music people love to dance to.

Here's to all the garage bands and amateur string quartets, and Bach and Beethoven Societies. And a special salute to those who play the less appreciated instruments -- tuba, banjo and washboard. And to the melodically impaired, those of us who limit our singing to tub or shower because, although we love to sing, we can't carry a tune.

Here's to all the actors in the local theater companies and drama groups, and all the dancers who put on all the Nutcrackers every year. Here's to slam poetry, that wonderful combination of art and sport.

Here's to everyone who loves to play Trivial Pursuit but will never make it to "Jeopardy."

Here's to all the would-be writers and poets who attend the writers' workshops and print in the smallest of small magazines, and will never be James Joyce or even John Grisham, and to all the people in all the book clubs who read and care.

And here's to all the people who will never be president of this country or senator or congressperson, but who serve on city councils and county commissions and library boards and sewage districts and river authorities and park boards and blue-ribbon commissions on whatever. Here's to all the poll watchers and election supervisors and campaign volunteers. You are democracy.

Here's to everyone who is never going to win the Nobel Prize or the Pulitzer or an Oscar or a genius grant or a championship trophy or the blue ribbon or the first prize, but who is still having a wonderful, marvelous, delightful time. Just playing the game, just trying.

To all of us who have the gift of enjoyment.