It was a big deal in my hometown in Michigan.
We woke up early to line up for the big parade that went down the main street of our town. I was usually dressed up as a character of whichever community theater play I was in. The best year was when I played the part of the fiddler from Fiddler on the Roof, and as I was waving from the float, one child shouted, “Look, mom, he’s a girl!” When I got older, I performed stunts and gymnastics with my cheerleading team in the parade and did back-handsprings down the hard gravel of Wilson Ave.
Finally, we covered ourselves in bug spray in an attempt to avoid the mosquitoes, and caught fireflies on our walk to watch the town fireworks. We sat right under the barn where they launched the fireworks, ooo–ing and aaah–ing over the lit up sky. There was something so special about our whole town being out that day and seeing so many familiar faces.
I hope that our children will one day be able to experience the magic of freedom and festivities.
Unfortunately, my husband is a little bit of a holiday killer. Little bit is probably an understatement. He hates parades, fairs, and fireworks (don’t even get me started on Christmas). I had to coerce him for a half an hour to get him to watch the fireworks with me. I raved about how romantic it would be, and how we could talk and hold hands. However, it was finally his mom that gave him the ultimate guilt trip to convince him to go. I am hoping he will catch the spirit in future years. Because my love for the 4th of July is not going away.