Happy Independence Day.
The great American holiday is marked with cook outs, parades, and fireworks as if it were a set of requirements to celebrate properly. I remember the parades when I was a boy and my dad was a volunteer fireman. I'd sit on the embankment across the street from Mr. Cone, the ice cream stand, and wait for dad to come by; firetruck horns and sirens sounding off for the kids. We'd go to the pond in town and from the little island in the center someone would launch off fireworks. For many years the family would go to Monroe Lumber, dad's store, and watch from the back of his pick up truck. Towns like Monroe, NY, from my past and Fuquay Varina, NC, in my present, line the street poles with flags and red, white, and blue bunting.
American pride with a slight dash of swagger.
We live in a great neighborhood. It's the type of neighborhood where there are lots of kids who al seem to get along, lots of fun adults, and everyone is down with having a good time. There is even a Facebook Page where the moms of the community share recipes, babysitters, and even kids clothing. On that page someone decided to put together a "First Annual" 4th of July Parade for the community where all the kids would ride their bikes behind a motorcycle that led the way - a whopping quarter mile - in a lazy loop from and to the pool. Dozens and dozens of families showed up.
And. It. Was. Awesome.
The kids - and their parents - and their grandparents - were all decked out in patriotic colors as the parade stretched out over half the distance of the route as the little kids had trouble keeping up with the bigger kids who were trying to keep up with the motorcycle. Grant kept right up with the group as I monitored from my bike. It was all a little haphazard but it was fun. People not in the parade actually brought out their lawn chairs and sat along the parade route and cheered.
We stuck around the pool for an hour afterwards where Grant swam in the deep end from the wall to me about ten feet away "all by himself"! It was indeed a major milestone for him. Unfortunately we were driven off by a strong localized downpour.
Our evening reminded us of the great community we live in with a big cook out at the Haran's house. Burgers, ribs, beer, bourbon, cigars - Joe Haran said it best as we were sitting on the back porch, "this is what a barbecue should be." I couldn't agree more. The kids all play together and no one really stresses where they are or what they are doing. Maybe in a few years when they are raging, hormonal teenagers we might need to worry - but not now.
As dusk approached we began to hear the WHUMP (1...2...3) BooM! of the neighborhood fireworks. We moved the party from the back of the house to the front of the house. The kids all got sparklers as the grown up launched hundreds of dollars of fireworks into the sky. It was perfect.
The traditions of our childhood have changed over the years, yet there is still a lot we gleefully cling to them in their 2015 form and pass on to our children. In forty years, perhaps Grant will remember these rites of the American Summer and pass them on.
The great American holiday is marked with cook outs, parades, and fireworks as if it were a set of requirements to celebrate properly. I remember the parades when I was a boy and my dad was a volunteer fireman. I'd sit on the embankment across the street from Mr. Cone, the ice cream stand, and wait for dad to come by; firetruck horns and sirens sounding off for the kids. We'd go to the pond in town and from the little island in the center someone would launch off fireworks. For many years the family would go to Monroe Lumber, dad's store, and watch from the back of his pick up truck. Towns like Monroe, NY, from my past and Fuquay Varina, NC, in my present, line the street poles with flags and red, white, and blue bunting.
American pride with a slight dash of swagger.
We live in a great neighborhood. It's the type of neighborhood where there are lots of kids who al seem to get along, lots of fun adults, and everyone is down with having a good time. There is even a Facebook Page where the moms of the community share recipes, babysitters, and even kids clothing. On that page someone decided to put together a "First Annual" 4th of July Parade for the community where all the kids would ride their bikes behind a motorcycle that led the way - a whopping quarter mile - in a lazy loop from and to the pool. Dozens and dozens of families showed up.
And. It. Was. Awesome.
The kids - and their parents - and their grandparents - were all decked out in patriotic colors as the parade stretched out over half the distance of the route as the little kids had trouble keeping up with the bigger kids who were trying to keep up with the motorcycle. Grant kept right up with the group as I monitored from my bike. It was all a little haphazard but it was fun. People not in the parade actually brought out their lawn chairs and sat along the parade route and cheered. 
We stuck around the pool for an hour afterwards where Grant swam in the deep end from the wall to me about ten feet away "all by himself"! It was indeed a major milestone for him. Unfortunately we were driven off by a strong localized downpour. Our evening reminded us of the great community we live in with a big cook out at the Haran's house. Burgers, ribs, beer, bourbon, cigars - Joe Haran said it best as we were sitting on the back porch, "this is what a barbecue should be." I couldn't agree more. The kids all play together and no one really stresses where they are or what they are doing. Maybe in a few years when they are raging, hormonal teenagers we might need to worry - but not now.
As dusk approached we began to hear the WHUMP (1...2...3) BooM! of the neighborhood fireworks. We moved the party from the back of the house to the front of the house. The kids all got sparklers as the grown up launched hundreds of dollars of fireworks into the sky. It was perfect.
The traditions of our childhood have changed over the years, yet there is still a lot we gleefully cling to them in their 2015 form and pass on to our children. In forty years, perhaps Grant will remember these rites of the American Summer and pass them on.
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