REFLECTIONS ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
The only memory I have of July 4th until adulthood is that of marching in the band for parades. From 8th grade through the summer of 11th grade, I marched, playing my trombone. The first two or three years were unbearably hot, whatever the thermometer said. We wore heavy woolen uniforms of dark maroon. They were wonderful during football season, but in July, not so much. I enjoyed the trombone because we got to march in the first row. No one wanted to be goosed with a slide while marching. Of course, we also had the responsibility of leading our columns around the droppings from the horses.
The first parade I remember watching from the street was the Bicentennial parade in 1976. Mom, Dad, and I drove into Philadelphia and found a place to stand along Market Street near Independence Hall. We were there at nine in order to beat the crowds to a curbside spot and stayed until after three. The sun was blazing, the day humid. For some reason, there were no vendors along our part of the parade route and we were all parched and dehydrated by the time we drove home.
The floats were stunning, but the marching troops were applauded only lightly, as we were just a year out of Viet Nam. Dad, a 20-year Navy man, who had served on a sub in the Pacific during World War II, took off his hat and placed it over his heart each time the flag passed by. Mom and I, sans hats, did the same with our hand. Although I had marched against the war, I loved my country and all the virtues it stood for. It was an amazing day to be an American and we all wiped away a tear now and then.
The next day, we took in the air show at the Willow Grove Air Station. Again, the sun was merciless. We were dazzled by the loops and spins of the jets and mesmerized by the formations flown by the Blue Angels. By the time we came home, I had chills and a temperature of 103 degrees from sunstroke. Despite the fever, I was glad to have been present at both events. Even though I believed Viet Nam had been a mistake and I was elate Nixon had resigned, this was my country. I rejoiced in the freedom to protest, worship, travel and work at whatever made me happy that was at the core of our democracy.
Fast forward to July 4, 1980, following my middler year in seminary. My friends and I rode the subway into Center City Philadelphia. As we disembarked by Independence Hall, we could already hear the explosions of individual firecrackers above us. I had forgotten how my body reacts to the kabooms of explosives. Before we had even ascended to street level, my body was already twitching at each pop. My friends laughed hysterically and pointed at me.
When we reached Independence Square, we found ourselves surrounded by hundreds of others who had also come for the festivities. We wandered around for a while until we found a spot where we could all sit together. My head and shoulders jerked involuntarily with even small firecrackers. I loved the beauty of the fireworks but flinched at each pop. We sat talking and watching for an hour or more, waiting for darkness to fall and the spectacle to begin.
Suddenly, some future felon (I’m certain) rolled a cherry bomb in our direction. The surprise move left us frozen in place until it exploded just in front of my out-stretched legs. I could feel my heart accelerate. I leapt to my feet as quickly as I was able, which wasn’t quickly enough to catch the young hoodlum, who ran off with his friends. It was just as well. Had I been able to apprehend him in my shell-shocked state, I would have wrung his neck until his eyeballs launched int the sky like rockets. Then, I would have spent my life doing prison ministry from the inside.
After those few moments of fright, we had a great time. We talked with others who had come: black, white, brown, and every other shade humans come in, as well as native born, immigrants, and travelers from all over the world. We reveled at the success of the American experiment and the oneness that we felt as Americans. Our nation wasn’t perfect, but the fireworks, the cheering, and the laughter drew us all together as one family, at least for that night.
Years passed. When I moved to Wilkes-Barre in 1998, my clergy friends who lived in the area and I developed new traditions for the Fourth. If the local Triple A team, the Red Barons (a Phillie farm team until they sold out to the despised Yankees) was in town, we all went to the all game and stayed for the magnificent fireworks display afterwards. Baseball, hot dogs, fireworks and friends: how much more American can you get?
When the last burst of the rocket’s red glare settled, when my body stopped flinching, Pat, John and I headed out of the stadium for the next event, trying to escape the parking lot for the ride home. We usually waited until the crowds thinned, since we had no desire to play bumper cars with the other vehicles.
To pass the time, Pat and I would sing every patriotic song we could think of. We stood outside the car and san, ignoring the looks of people who thought it was obvious we were demented or intoxicated. We started with the basics: two or three verses of “America, the Beautiful” and “My Country Tis of Thee.” Doing our best imitation of Kate Smith at a Flyers’ game, we belted out “God Bless America.” Then we moved on to lesser known songs like “This is My Country” and George M. Cohan’s “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” The crowds were down to a dribble by the time we got to “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean,” which has wonderful, if unappreciated lyrics: Thy mandates make heroes assemble, when Liberty’s form stands in view! Thy banners make tyranny tremble, when borne by the red, white, and blue. We always finished with a medley of the songs of each of the five branches of the military, including the little-known Coast Guard song, whose chorus declares, “Semper Paratus is our guide, our fame, our glory, too. To fight to save or fight and die, aye Coast Guard we are for you.” (At least that’s the way I remember it.)
By that time, infinitely patient John was more than ready to drive us home.
One year, however, was different. I was still living in Wilkes-Barre, when my friend MJ called from the hospital. She was being admitted. Could I come right over? MJ had just been diagnosed with Stage 4 Lymphoma. She had had a nagging cough for months, but nobody thought anything of it. then one day her arm swelled to four times its normal size. A friend of ours, who was a nurse, told her to get it checked out immediately. That led to surgery, where doctors removed over a quart of liquid from around her heart.
MJ’s parents immediately came down from Endicott, New York, to be with her. For the first week, they stayed at my house, which was only 10 minutes from the hospital. MJ’s condition was critical and we knew she could die.
On the 4th of July, her father and I sat in the huge waiting room on the top floor of the Wilkes-Barre General Hospital. MJ wanted no one but her mother with her. I kept Joe company. There were long periods of silence, followed by a few words of non-committal encouragement. Most of the time, we were lost in our private thoughts and prayers.
Eventually, darkness settled over the valley. We had a panoramic view of all the little towns that lined the other side of the Susquehanna River. One by one, each community launched its fireworks. The sky lit up down the street from us first; a Wilkes-Barre neighborhood began the celebrations. Up and down the river, bursts of red, green, gold, blue and white exploded and cascaded down like fairy dust. The fireworks rained down along the river in silence. We heard nothing through the thick glass windows. Joe and I talked and pointed, even laughed a little, grateful for the distraction. The colorful sky was a gift from God to lighten our mood and lift our hearts. For no logical reason, we felt encouraged. The cavalcade of color have us a hope that we could not articulate. The pall had lifted, at least for a time.
About two weeks later, MJ began responding positively to the treatment. Eventually the cancer went into remission. The next 4th of July, MJ rejoined the gang of us at the ballpark. That night, the fireworks were not only a celebration of our nation, but a celebration of life.
For the three years before her death last year, Mom and I watched the Capitol 4th of July celebration on PBS. I sang aloud with the Beach Boys and other groups, but that wasn’t our main focus. We were waiting for the real celebration. Mom loved to hear the Army Herald Trumpeter, which meant the show was beginning in earnest. The color guard, consisting of every branch of the service, displayed not only the American flag, but the flags of every state and territory. They reminded me of the many locales, traditions, accents, languages, and nationalities that make up this great nation.
The patriotic songs and Sousa marches always stirred something deep within me. I played air trombone to accompany “Stars and Stripes Forever” with all the passion I demonstrated with a real one in high school. Mom and I would “ooh and ah” as the fireworks exploded, accompanied by the orchestra and cannons playing “The 1812 Overture.” We watched all the way through the credits as the fireworks lit up the sky.
Last year, as I watched the show, I turned several times to make a comment to Mom, but she wasn’t there. Still I delighted in the fireworks, watched the proud men and women in their uniforms, and listened to the brass and piccolos playing “Stars and Stripes Forever,” reflecting on the state of our nation. Not since the Viet Nam War have I seen this nation so divided.
Today, I see fear and anger among people in every part of our country. I cry when I look at the Statue of Liberty and feel that her desire for “the huddled masses yearning to breathe free” is being denied, distorted, and even ridiculed. Yet, I have hope. This is still the land that I love. I don’t know if we are the greatest on earth, but I know that the ideals on which we were founded: the freedom to speak, worship and gather with others, the right of every citizen to vote, the freedom of the press, equality for all regardless of color, gender, religion, national origin, or who we love, and equal treatment before the law are the greatest ever adopted as a nation’s guiding principles.
This is my country. We are not perfect. We can do better. But with all I may criticize about America, I am still singing its praises. And praying that it fulfills the promise of its founding.