Dylan stopped blowing up things on his X-Box long enough for him to join me for the ride to Ashley on Independence Day so we could watch people blow things up. As I waited in the car for Mr. No Sense of Urgency, I glanced around in the fading light.
After years of living here, we finally have that expanded garage and the house has crisp white siding and red shingles. I swear the trees have grown four feet this summer alone. Flowers are in bloom, including a water lily in one of the gurgling ponds alive with darting goldfish.
Dylan and I talked about these things as we drove—the bounty of America and how an average American family like us could live on a five-acre plot surrounded by corn and soybeans—our little slice of the American pie.
“In Europe, everyone is so crowded,” Dylan said. It’s true. We have so much elbow room here, almost an embarrassment of space.
We often talk a lot about the human condition in our family, about the way things are and the way things ought to be, but I wanted to make sure that on this night we talked about the abundance of good things. I wanted to makes sure we stopped for a moment to realize how lucky we are to live in the United States of America.
As we approached Ashley in the dusk, we could see rockets decorating the night sky from one end to the other. Boats docked at Lake Hoskins, a jewel of a lake we are so fortunate to have near our home.
Someone said on the radio last week that what happened in 1776 was a miracle, and it was. The assemblage of so many great men in one place at one time will never be duplicated again. There is an immense amount of wisdom and foresight in the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.
The great test of our time is can we reconcile that vision with modern circumstance? Our leaders have wavered and sought and end run around certain amendments from time to time, warrantless wiretaps and expansion of eminent domain for commercial purposes among them.
We found a spot to park at the baseball diamond. Dylan scampered off with friends while I leaned the seat back and opened the sunroof for a perfect view. As I watched the spectacular bursts, I thought about, how across the country, the scene was being replicated in small towns and big cities.
We need these days of national celebration to bring us together and remind us that even if we have a long way to go, we have come a long way.
As the sparks from the final volley faded, car horns honked in applause. Dylan emerged from the darkness. “Man, that was awesome!” He told me how he and his friend Jacob had watched sprawled out on the cool grass.
My mind flashed back to my own youth, to those days at the ballpark in Frederick, SD, which is where we watched our fireworks displays. I remembered the way it all reflected in the river behind us. I could almost feel again the sunburn I always seemed to have on July 4.
As the years go by, my pride in my country grows. It’s contradictory. I know I complain more these days about what is wrong, but it makes me appreciate what is right more, too.
We waited for the other cars to clear out before we headed home—a rare traffic jam for these parts. Some folks remained behind to light off the last of their arsenal. I could see the silent explosions in my rear view mirror. Dylan was upbeat and we talked about how some people get to watch these Independence Day celebrations from airplanes, and wouldn’t that be neat.
“I’d like to do that someday,” he said, “Fly all across the county watching the fireworks.” I imagine he will. It’s something that could only happen in America.
Writer’s Note: A July 4 memory from 2009.
