There is probably not much my dad loved more than patriotic celebrations, especially when they came with a parade. Every Memorial Day and 4th of July I remember sitting on the cement curb in Thornton, Illinois, or neighboring South Holland, with my skinny legs stretched into the street waiting for the parade to begin.
Even though the sun was blazing, we always arrived early, which was okay with me. After all, you needed to be up front and center to catch the wrapped tootsie rolls they would toss out of the cars.
The parade always began with local celebrities like the town mayor perched in the back of classic cars. My dad could care less about the people, his eyes were only on the cars. He could name every one: "Yep, Fifty...Two...Ford....Galaxie. Sharp...Sixty...Nine...Vette." Each word would be emphasized and deliberate. When one passed by that he loved, he'd let out a long, slow whistle. I intravenously absorbed car knowledge just sitting by his side.
Next came marching bands with drums, tubas, and the requisite John Phillips Sousa tunes. In junior high school, I joined the marching band playing the flute, glockenspiel, and even (once) the huge bass drum. I can still do the marching band arm move, snapping it up and back in rhythm. Next came the Shriners in those little zig-zagging clown cars, kids on bicycles, sometimes a karate group, the local tumbling gymnastics class, and a bunch of meandering boy and girl scout troops.
The fire-engines were last, with their loud, sustained screaming horns and whistles. I would clamp my hands over my ears, barely dimming the blaring sirens. It seemed to last forever. As if our town's police and fire department weren't enough, neighboring towns would send their ambulances and fire engines to join the party. Hundreds of them. My dad would look down at me and laugh. He loved it all. And we stayed firmly planted from the very start until the last ambulance faded into the distance. We were parade faithful.
When the street cleared, we would fold our chairs and blankets and make our way back to our family Malibu wood-sided station wagon. I held his hand as we meandered through the dense crowd, wiping the sweat off my forehead. I can remember it like it was yesterday.
As an adult, the 4th has lost some of its luster for me. I'm not a huge fan of grilled food, hot sun, neighborhood cookouts or bugs. And the 4th always seems a bit melancholy. As a student and then a professor, the celebration signaled that summer was halfway gone, and fall quickly approaching. It felt like sand slipping through my fingertips as freedom disappeared.
Tonight we'll head to our Florida neighborhood celebration, sitting near the causeway bridge as they shoot fireworks high in the sky over the Halifax River. We'll tilt our heads up to watch the explosive light and those new delightful dripping fireworks that look as if they're melting. And I'll enjoy this big party that celebrates who we are and the country in which we live.
We are holding a party not because we have to, but because we can. We celebrate who we are with our penchant for hot dogs and popcorn, apple pie and peanuts. We'll play frisbee and baseball, water ski and hang glide. We'll sit on cement curbs watching long, never-ending parades, and wear bedazzled t-shirts in red, white, and blue.
We are messy and loud and amazing. I'm glad to be an American.
God bless the U.S.A.
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