I have happy memories of the Independence Days of my childhood in the 1960s and ‘70s.
My family would typically have a cookout. Sometimes we’d have hot dogs and hamburgers, with the addition of a platter of steamers. Sometimes the main event would be a traditional New England boiled dinner that my mother or aunt would gussy up with chourico, a type of Portuguese spicy sausage.
We’d take turns hosting the event with my father’s sister and her family, who lived across town. There were five kids in all, and we competed fiercely in badminton and croquet. I was a hopeless athlete, but I did love croquet, so I didn’t let my lack of skill stop me. My father and his siblings had avidly played croquet when they were growing up and Dad still had the old set, 40 years old and in a state of disrepair. Mom had acquired a new set by saving Green Stamps.
At night, we would go see the fireworks, which were set off over the town beach on the river. People parked their cars and sat on the hoods on blankets.
When I became a teenager, I wanted to go into the city adjacent to our town to see what I thought would be bigger and better fireworks. Of course, it was all about going out at night with my friends.
We went to a park that bordered the steepest hill in the city. The pyrotechnics erupted above Mount Hope Bay, which stretched from Bristol County, Mass., where we were, to Bristol County, R.I.
I wasn’t much of a fireworks connoisseur. To me, a Fourth of July show was a Fourth of July show. I found what I liked most about this experience was the conviviality. People weren’t sitting on their cars. Everyone was on blankets, as if we were on a picnic, or at an outdoor music festival. There wasn’t much room between us. People talked to each other. Also, a market had been set up before the fireworks, with stalls selling such exciting items as Indian bedspreads, tie-dyed t-shirts and funky hippie beads.
At about the same time, my family started taking annual car trips to Florida during April vacation. We’d always stop at a big tourist trap in South Carolina called “South of the Border.” It sold fireworks, among many, many other non-essential items. Fireworks were legal in South Carolina. They were not legal in Massachusetts.
That did not deter my father. We had an acre of land that bordered on a pumpkin field. Our lot was cleared, but only about half of it was lawn. The rest was stubby wild grass and weeds—punctuated by trees and three huge boulders— that my father regularly tamed into submission with his riding mower. I note this because it wasn’t like we were shooting fireworks into the woods, or other people’s yards.
I suppose my father fondly remembered setting off fireworks as a boy, when it was legal. My sister and I always had sparklers, but that was all we knew until Dad introduced us to fireworks. I have to admit, it was exciting to see how fireworks actually worked. And Dad wasn’t worried about the police showing up. Everybody who went south for vacation bought fireworks. The cops had bigger fish to fry on Fourth of July night.
Now I get to watch the fireworks from the comfort of my own home. I used to have to go to the back deck, but the city moved the launch site a few years ago, and now I go out front. I am always alone, because my husband, Paul, doesn’t care for fireworks.
Neither do our two dogs, of course. But an interesting thing happened when we were staying in a cottage on the coast last year (as we have for the past 14 years). We can see the fireworks from the deck there, overlooking Penobscot Bay. I went out to watch them, and, amazingly, both Martha, the pit-bull mix, and Aquinnah, the chocolate lab, went out with me. Martha doesn’t overreact to the sound of fireworks, which is amazing, as a loose paper flying on a breeze can startle her. Quinn, however, often goes into panic mode—whining, pacing, etc.
That night, perhaps emboldened by the freedom of the long, gated deck and the tang of salt air, Quinn barked at the fireworks. Since he was 10 and a half at the time, I was pleased with his energy and chutzpah. Also, the nearest neighbors were on the other side of a thicket of trees and bushes. I didn’t silence him.
Sometimes on July 4th, Paul and I watch the film “1776,” which recounts the adoption of the Declaration of Independence in musical form. Maybe next year I’ll try to snag a copy of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” which is a biography of songwriter and entertainer James M. Cohan. Dad and I used to try to catch it on TV back in the day, before streaming and DVDs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it straight through, but I love the parts I have seen.
The Independence Days of my youth—they don’t sound so special. Yet they were, to me.
At night, we would go see the fireworks, which were set off over the town beach on the river. People parked their cars and sat on the hoods on blankets.
When I became a teenager, I wanted to go into the city adjacent to our town to see what I thought would be bigger and better fireworks. Of course, it was all about going out at night with my friends.
We went to a park that bordered the steepest hill in the city. The pyrotechnics erupted above Mount Hope Bay, which stretched from Bristol County, Mass., where we were, to Bristol County, R.I.
I wasn’t much of a fireworks connoisseur. To me, a Fourth of July show was a Fourth of July show. I found what I liked most about this experience was the conviviality. People weren’t sitting on their cars. Everyone was on blankets, as if we were on a picnic, or at an outdoor music festival. There wasn’t much room between us. People talked to each other. Also, a market had been set up before the fireworks, with stalls selling such exciting items as Indian bedspreads, tie-dyed t-shirts and funky hippie beads.
At about the same time, my family started taking annual car trips to Florida during April vacation. We’d always stop at a big tourist trap in South Carolina called “South of the Border.” It sold fireworks, among many, many other non-essential items. Fireworks were legal in South Carolina. They were not legal in Massachusetts.
That did not deter my father. We had an acre of land that bordered on a pumpkin field. Our lot was cleared, but only about half of it was lawn. The rest was stubby wild grass and weeds—punctuated by trees and three huge boulders— that my father regularly tamed into submission with his riding mower. I note this because it wasn’t like we were shooting fireworks into the woods, or other people’s yards.
I suppose my father fondly remembered setting off fireworks as a boy, when it was legal. My sister and I always had sparklers, but that was all we knew until Dad introduced us to fireworks. I have to admit, it was exciting to see how fireworks actually worked. And Dad wasn’t worried about the police showing up. Everybody who went south for vacation bought fireworks. The cops had bigger fish to fry on Fourth of July night.
Now I get to watch the fireworks from the comfort of my own home. I used to have to go to the back deck, but the city moved the launch site a few years ago, and now I go out front. I am always alone, because my husband, Paul, doesn’t care for fireworks.
Neither do our two dogs, of course. But an interesting thing happened when we were staying in a cottage on the coast last year (as we have for the past 14 years). We can see the fireworks from the deck there, overlooking Penobscot Bay. I went out to watch them, and, amazingly, both Martha, the pit-bull mix, and Aquinnah, the chocolate lab, went out with me. Martha doesn’t overreact to the sound of fireworks, which is amazing, as a loose paper flying on a breeze can startle her. Quinn, however, often goes into panic mode—whining, pacing, etc.
That night, perhaps emboldened by the freedom of the long, gated deck and the tang of salt air, Quinn barked at the fireworks. Since he was 10 and a half at the time, I was pleased with his energy and chutzpah. Also, the nearest neighbors were on the other side of a thicket of trees and bushes. I didn’t silence him.
Sometimes on July 4th, Paul and I watch the film “1776,” which recounts the adoption of the Declaration of Independence in musical form. Maybe next year I’ll try to snag a copy of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” which is a biography of songwriter and entertainer James M. Cohan. Dad and I used to try to catch it on TV back in the day, before streaming and DVDs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it straight through, but I love the parts I have seen.
The Independence Days of my youth—they don’t sound so special. Yet they were, to me.
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