Like any other kid in the 1970s, as dusk fell on that momentous night, my excitement mounted. Inside the house, Mom swiped cream cheese onto Ritz crackers and scooped vanilla ice cream into the American flag glasses that lived on the top shelf of the cupboard the other 364 days of the year. She poured root beer over the creamy frozen treat, and we kids grabbed the frothy drinks and headed outside into the steamy remains of the day. The mosquitos, those faithful attendees of the party each year, came over—and my brother’s friends too, who rolled up on banana seat bikes for the fireworks show.
After the obligatory safety lesson (I think Dad knew someone who had lost a finger or nose to pyrotechnics), it was time for the grand display. I don’t recall anything as fancy as a Roman candle at our place, but we oohed at the whistly spinners and aahed over the crackling balls. Next, Dad ignited the firecrackers. Brother and friends whipped snappers onto the cement, their satisfying bang synonymous in my mind with freedom. And they lit those snakes that foamed into a charred curl and stank like rotten eggs, leaving a stain on the driveway to remind us later of the evening’s fun. The rest of the night we slapped at mosquitos and frolicked in the front yard, trying to light the sparklers that burned out as fast as our root beer floats. And the fireflies blinked over the ditch on our property, giving their own show for all who might see.
Later in life, I traveled the world. I witnessed fireworks in Las Vegas, New Orleans, New York City, Paris. Those displays were extravagant and otherworldly, sucking the breath from my lungs. But none of them equaled the little—yet larger-than-life—celebration of Independence Day at our ranch-style house on the edge of town in Middle River, Minnesota.
And the memories? They spark brightest of all. But you already knew that.
