Picnic at the lake and watching the fireworks being set off while we sit by the water, but this year I will be working.

What is it about fireworks?  Eyes wide, mouth wider as we gaze in awe at the beautiful spectacle.  Are we people who just love that flash and bang?  Not too many of us really relate it to the "rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air" and yet, there is just something so awe-inspiring about this celebration.  And when we DO relate it to the birth of our nation, how humbling.
 
Shortly after the horror of 9/11, my husband and I went to a local restaurant.  It was, and perhaps some of you will remember, the day that people wanted to show their support of  and love for their country and at 7:00 pm, eastern time, we were to go outside and light a candle.  The manager of this neighborhood restaurant came around to all the tables, told us they were going to go outside at 7:00 with candles, offered us each a candle and invited us to go.  We did.  There were maybe 50 of us outside on the sidewalk and in the parking lot of this restaurant, at first silently praying for our country, holding a lit candle.  Spontaneously, we started singing "God Bless America" with tears running down our cheeks. 
 
This was just a working class neighborhood, ordinary, but to me it represented what our country is and who it is.  Quite a sight seeing these big guys holding a candle and weeping for the love of their country.  Even now, it raises the hair on my arms, sends a chill down my spine and a tear (or more) to my eyes. 
 
So "Happy Birthday America" and may God continue to bless.

I was once part of a small community and everyone could be in the parade.  It was past terrific.  Kids on bikes and trikes… streamers everywhere.   Dogs in sunglasses and hats.  Thirteen year old boys proudly driving tractors.  A small girl walking her sheep. The firetruck with firemen tossing candy and safety tips cards. The mayor in the back of an old Chevy convertible.  Another convertible carrying the Fair Queen. The cheerleaders and football players, all proud in their uniforms.  The ice cream truck.  Soldiers in uniform.

As long as I live, I don’t think I’ll ever see a parade that could top the 4th of July parade of that small community.

     I grew up on Long Island Sound in Connecticut, where history was drilled into your brain from kindergarten. Everyone knew who Smedley, Barlow, Wolcott, and Mason were and patriotism was the way of life. The day started with Mom making tons of potato salad and cole slaw. Dad hauled out more beach chairs from the garage and set them up in the back yard, which was the beach on Long Island Sound. By then family and friends who lived inland arrived and our driveway was bumper to bumper [cars were BIG then]. Guests brought food and more chairs. Women into the house to help Mom. The men and kids crammed into cars, sitting on someone’s lap and squished together [no seat belts then]. We headed off to the parade in Bridgeport where all branches of the military proudly marched in sweltering heat, along with high school marching bands, the local football teams, prom queens and kings, floats made up like log cabins with Indians and gun-toting historical figures in tights and the triangular hats. There were also elephants and other circus animals in the parade, after all, the PT Barnum and Bailey circus was in town. [PT Barnum was the Mayor of Bridgeport 100 years earlier.] We sat on curbs and sidewalks waving our little flags and never worried about getting dirty. Our fathers, dressed in madras shorts always stood and saluted the military branches when they marched by. I don’t think there was an adult man watching the parade who wasn’t a veteran. While the  parade was great fun, we knew it was a celebration of our freedom. We kids understood that loud and clear.

       After the parade we’d all go back to my house for the BBQ, which was more of a block party on the beach. You didn’t know half the people who ate your hot dogs and hamburgers, probably the neighbors’ guests, but no one cared. The older folks played badminton and the younger ones hit the volley ball court on the sand. Dad got a few sparklers for the younger kids to twirl, but never handed them out until he had given his stern lecture about safety. Everyone wanted to be first for a ride on our next door neighbor’s speed boat, and just as many of the Frankel’s guests wanted to crew on our sailboat. We’d sail to Johnny Rose’s island and back and pick up another load of sailors. And so it went.

     Because fireworks were illegal in our town, we’d change out of wet bathing suits, and head out to Seaside Park in Bridgeport, armed with an old blanket, to watch one of the most spectacular fireworks displays, shot off by City officials over the Sound. Once the last and most brilliant fireworks died out, we meandered across the street where the PT Barnum and Bailey circus set up a carnival. Ferris wheels, more hot dogs…..you name it.

     Then home to bed. Exhausted and content. This was July 4th in America in the 50’s and 60’s.

I love the fireworks, but even more I love that our family is always together and there is very little fuss - if we are away or at home. Our neighborhood has a big day, starting with a flagraising ceremony, then coffee, kids games , horseshoe tournament and then the day ends with a cookout. Folks just wander in and out of the events and you catch up with everyone you haven’t had a chance to see in awhile!

Today’s weather is gorgeous - we have had so much rain and fog and very little sun. Everyone is reveling in the sunlight!!

To a piano man it’s par for the course to answer requests to play what someone would like to hear. Only once a year though, on this very day, the fourth of July, do I play my own request, and I play it thinking like Ray Charles must have thought every time he play it; "America,America". I play it like I mean it, because I do, even though I am not an American. But your country means as much to me, as it does to you. Happy Birthday Americans.