In South Texas in the early 90′s, the fireworks for Independence Day rang through the night sky with unrepentant, unstoppable glory.
Every year, my family’s tradition brought us to the top of a hill.
It was probably the least comfortable hill ever conceived– wet, uneven, and itchy– but it’s unpopularity made it seem reserved just for us. We would park far, far away– on the outskirts of the parking lot because we never left in time– and trek our way through thousands of families who were waiting for the fireworks show to begin. We dodged the trees, and followed my parents around the park, past the creek– 6 little ducklings waddling behind their parents, filled with cotton candy and decked out in red, white, and blue.
We didn’t know anyone, but they tipped our hats to us– Americans to Americans– and wished us happy. Smaller fireworks, no doubt run across the border, could be found in the hands of every man, woman, and child alike.
Our fireworks show was a big fireworks show– the biggest, perhaps– but what else would you expect?
This was Texas.
When we finally reached the neglected hill, my parents would spread out their blankets for us to lie down. Our blankets smelled like India and Mexico, because that’s where they were from. We always used them on the 4th, though, so they also smelled like America.
Wet grass, fireworks, and sunshine. Lots of sunshine.
I mean, this was Texas. Even in the dead of night you could smell the sun.
The show would open with our National Anthem and we would stand for it. I remember asking my mom if we had to stand, my spindly city legs objecting to the seemingly endless journey from the parking lot to the hill. The answer was an unequivocal yes.
We stand up when called upon to do so because we are Americans.
Enough said.
So I stood, until it was time to sit, and never again asked to be excluded. (Years later I would find myself telling my nephew the same thing, with the same voice of authority, and watch him focus on staying balanced and upright.)
My parents would play a game with my older brother– twelve years my senior. Every time a firework lit the balmy night sky, they would shout a tribute to “something American” into the cosmos. It would always start with “Freedom” and become increasingly random as the night went on, until they weren’t able to keep up with the booms of independence. Sometimes I would contribute a word, or hero, or concept, too.
Boom. Freedom.
Boom. George Washington. Boom. The Constitution.
Boom. Mark Twain, boom, the Fifth Amendment, boom, Louisa May Alcott. Boom, Apple Pie, boom, boom, boom– Babe Ruth, Mickey Mouse, Andy Warhol. Boom! Texas!
By the end, we would be laughing and misty-eyed, deafened by the cacophony of the fireworks and our own tribute to America. It took days to wash the smell of Independence Day from my hair, and I’d go to school the next day with grass and grit stuck to my shoes, but no one ever minded.
This was Texas, after all.
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It’s been a long day and my early July 4th memories have been on my mind for a lot of reasons, from#StandWithWendy to more family oriented immediate issues.
You see, our neighbors have been letting off fireworks early, the sounds of which have been traumatized my rescue cat, Perdita. I tried to tell her it was the sound of America, but she’s not buying it. We’ve never lived this close to live, unregulated fireworks and it’s awful to watch her terror. She can’t sleep. She isn’t eating well. I’ve noticed that if I sing to her and if Dave is in sight, she doesn’t mind so much, but it does mean we’ll be spending the 4th of July inside for the first time in my life. I was a little sad at first to miss the show, but the 4th for me has always been more about family time than it is about lights in the sky. To that measure, I will spending the 4th the way I do every year– with the ones I love.
If you celebrate, what’s your July 4th tradition? If you don’t, when do you get your fireworks fix? Do you have any suggestions for Perdita? The girl’s a wreck!
Also– for those of you enjoying fireworks at home, please consider our animal friends! They’re Americans, too.
Boom. Perdita.
