Rethinking Miss Liberty

What do Geraldo Rivera, Ann Landers, George Steinbrenner III, Gina Lollobrigida, Louis B. Mayer and Louis Armstrong have in common? They all were born on the Fourth of July. And you didn’t believe in astrology!

Fourth of July is not my favorite holiday. Labor Day has Jerry and his kids. Thanksgiving, my brother-in-law, the electrician, comes for dinner and fixes any wiring problems in the house. Christmas has Bing Crosby dreaming, Nat King Cole roasting chestnuts on an open fire and Jimmy Stewart in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” News Year’s Day, I start another diet. President’s Day has great coat sales. On Memorial Day, you can wear white shoes.

But Fourth of July means barbecues and fireworks. Bah, humbug! If you ever hosted a barbecue, you know what it’s like to be a flight attendant. “Would you like a drink, now? Hamburger or hot dog? Mustard? Ketchup? Pickles? Cole slaw, potato salad? Coffee? Tea? Tums?”

As for fireworks, I spent too many years saying to my kids, “No, you can’t have firecrackers, they’re dangerous.” I don’t like crowds, looking for a place to park, looking up, mosquitoes and, especially, loud noises. I always end up with a headache and a stiff neck.

There’s something else I don’t look forward to on Fourth of July: bathing suits. Sooner or later--if not this year, then next--you have to wear one. I think the year I was 16, I didn’t mind wearing a bathing suit. Enough said?

I’ll never forget July 4, 1964. That’s the day my son was supposed to be born. But people don’t like to be born on a holiday. They always feel gypped. They have to share their birthday with somebody like a president or Jesus. I always knew my son was smart. He waited until July 5 to be born.

I remember the Fourth of July when I drove from Connecticut to Manhattan to pick up my grandfather. Nobody ever called him by his first name, only “Mr. Goldberg.” He smoked cigarettes with a cigarette holder, like President Franklin D. Roosevelt. My grandfather owned a stationery store on Madison Avenue and never went anywhere he couldn’t walk to. He didn’t have to.

I’d begged him to spend the holiday in the country with me and my kids, his great grandchildren. The drive was awkward. I’d never been alone with him. I was glad he slept. On the drive back, we only spoke about traffic. When I think about him now, I’m glad I did all that driving. I think about him every Fourth of July.

There was also the Fourth of July when I was sure our cocker spaniel puppy had run away. He was actually just hiding from the terrifying noise of fireworks. I didn’t know then that dogs, unlike children, never leave and remain your best friends even after they get older.

The Fourth of July that marked the centennial celebration of the Statue of Liberty, I was in Paris. I’m grateful the French gave us such a great present. (Imagine if they had sent us a statue that looked like Napoleon. Instead of 168 steps to the crown, there would be only 12.) I am also grateful to the French for French fries, croissants, Yves Montand and Yves St. Laurent. But when I saw a clip of the festivities in New York, I was more homesick than when I was 8 and went to sleep-away camp for the first time.

Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breath free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I’ll lift my lamp beside the golden door.

People as tough as Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sigourney Weaver have to have a lump in their throats when they read that.

But don’t you think Miss Liberty could use a Jenny Jones make-over? They spent several million dollars and two years working on her in preparation for the celebration, and she came out looking exactly the same. If I spent two mil redoing myself, and I still looked the same, you can bet I wouldn’t just stand there.

I’m not saying cosmetic surgery. I like her Charlton Heston face. But, her hair, her hat and her outfit--please! And I hate to bring it up, but she could lose a few tons without Kate Moss being worried.

The problem is, 364 days a year, Miss Liberty is neglected. She might as well turn off her lamp. Why someone hasn’t seen her marketing potential is beyond me.

What about a Miss Liberty/Rumpelstiltskin contest? Guess Miss Liberty’s first name and win lunch with Liz, Cher, Rosanne, Rosie and Ellen.

Think about a Miss Liberty Beauty Pageant for women weighing more than 450,000 pounds. A movie based on the movie, “Midnight in the Garden of Miss Liberty,” starring Madonna. A Stephen Sondheim musical, “Sunday in Liberty Park,” starring Glenn Close--no, sorry, Bernadette Peters.

What about a television series, “Mad About Miss Liberty,” the story of Patrick Henry and Emma Lazarus. In the interest of historical accuracy, the roles would be played by Patrick Swayze and Emma Thompson.

Walt Disney and Donald Trump could open a Libertyland theme park on the West Side Highway. Calvin Klein could design a Freedom Underwear line, a box with nothing in it. Think what a lift the Nike Miss Liberty High-Heeled Sneaker could give Michael Jordan.

A Mr. Blackwell Miss Liberty Website could sponsor an annual “What Should Miss Liberty Wear This Year?” contest. The Spice Girls, I’m sure, would recommend a bare midriff; Barbara Bush something in blue; Nancy Reagan, red, and Cher, well, your guess is as good as mine.

I was thinking about a Veronica Lake hairdo, a gold velvet Armani sheath with spaghetti straps, a red picture hat with two white doves, Charles Jourdan wedgies and a white Hermes bag with blue stars. In her left hand, I’d have her hold the Old and New Testaments, the Talmud, the Koran, the Tripitaka, the Veda and the Wall Street Journal.

Actually, now that I think about it, with a little hype, Fourth of July could turn into my favorite holiday.