Beyond the Fireworks

Growing up in the South in a family that boasted many veterans, the Fourth of July was practically as important as Christmas. We had soldiers among us. Great-great-grandfather John fought in the Civil War and was a decorated orthopedic surgeon. Grandfather John was a surgeon in the Great War, and four of his brothers—and some brothers-in-law—also fought in World War II. With Daddy’s Korea experience, and seven cousins back from Vietnam, we were all about the freedom that our men and women had earned us. Uncle Billy was one of the honor guards at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, so we had bravery and beauty. And we were all proud. Even Grandmother Nanny served as a commissioned officer and nurse in World War I. We children were in awe of our family soldiering.

The 4th was not just an excuse to gather all 62 cousins and aunts and uncles together. It was more. There were, of course, fireworks that rivaled those of our nation’s capital. No one in our family was bothered by the illegality of the possession and distribution of fireworks; the more dangerous and incendiary the better. So, at Aunt Anne and Uncle Holt’s house we gathered. There were a dozen or more of those long plank-style picnic tables, and the women had starched the red-and-white check tablecloths to a razor-sharp crispness. Watermelons were cut up and served in little “decorative” shapes. Red Jell-O molds boasted floating white marshmallows and barbeque was cooked on an outdoor grill built of concrete.

We ate our dinner on the run while racing each other, scrambling away from hyperactive dogs and loose horses that the older kids used to frighten us—the whole scene conjuring up battle images like Appomattox.

With the swilling of each Pabst Blue Ribbon the parents grew louder, arguing politics and telling tales of their war-time experiences, Daddy invariably “beating” Uncle Dickie, who tried to compare his “life-threatening” doctoring far behind enemy lines to Daddy’s artillery experience on the Korean peninsula. Daddy was always insisting that, with Uncle Dickie as surgeon, the only men in harm’s way were the unwitting patients. The whole evening would pass with mock-fights and flung accusations until exhausted children would rally one last time to sing the national anthem. And since there were always a couple of guitar players in the crowd, that would usually segue into something by Peter, Paul and Mary. From the “Battle’s Red Glare” to “Where Have All the Flowers Gone,” we became a family for peace.

Now when we gather for the 4th we remember those golden summer nights, as well as our fathers and mothers. We remember the serenity and comfort of those evenings, and cherish the telling and re-telling of the same stories to our children. We know exactly what the 4th of July is supposed to be about. We can eat our canned baked beans, our scorched hot dogs and our family dessert—ambrosia—in peace. I am free to design handbags and decorate houses and write columns without censure. We are free to argue politics. Oh, to be free!