1,190 words

July Fourth always inspires a nostalgic feeling in me. When I was a kid, the holiday roughly marked the halfway point of summer break. Then, and now, it also means the beginning of the dog days of summer. The term “dog days” originated with the ancient Greeks, who coined it to describe the longest days of the year, which brought with them the most oppressive sunlight. The July Fourth holiday and the two other holidays that flank it, Memorial Day and Labor Day, often feel shallower than their cold-weather counterparts. There is more camping, beer, and grilling than moments of reflection about the passing of another year, as we experience around Christmas and New Year’s.

At one time, that might have been the case for me as well — but no longer.

My mom planned and hosted great Fourth of July parties when I was growinh up. The preparation took nearly a week — something I reluctantly participated in at first, but which I would later learn to appreciate as I got older. To be fair, I got the worst jobs: spreading dozens of bags of mulch, cleaning out the basement and garage, and carrying what felt like thousands of folding chairs and tables up and down flights of stairs. Not what a ten-year-old wanted to be doing on summer break, but it built my character and taught me a lot. My dad would ensure the yard was orderly, set up the tent, fill coolers with ice, and guarantee that there was plenty of fuel for the grill. My mom did everything else: the grocery shopping, decorating, setting the tables, cooking, and inviting friends and family. My grandparents obtained the fireworks, invited family friends, and spent time helping my mom.

Those long Fourth of July days, which I enjoyed every year for about a decade, were spent with my cousins and friends, and we spent hours riding go-karts and dirt bikes, playing endless rounds of grass croquet, and holding video-game tournaments. In the days after, I was responsible for cleaning up and returning the house to normal.

Our last party on the Fourth was nearly 20 years ago. After my grandfather passed away, nobody had the heart to organize another without him. But those summer parties had meant quite a lot and instilled many values in me; values of work, responsibility, and the importance of hospitality. But it also taught me something transcendent about this country, and perhaps society as well.

As I grew older, I made a point of always doing something memorable on the Fourth each year. I would usually spend the day alone, and then the evenings with friends or a girlfriend. Sometimes I went on long bicycle rides in the country, or sometimes a drive. I spent afternoons at the lake, taking advantage of the solitude to reflect and let my mind wander into places I had forgotten.

But nowadays the Fourth of July feels hollow in some ways, because so many people are hollow and no longer have any connection to what America is, was, and what it means to some of us. A bit of superficial flag-waving, flimsy appeals to the Constitution, and the articulation of tasteless — sometimes even crass — views of what it means to be an American too often pass for “patriotism” on the Fourth nowadays (as well as the rest of the year). Endless appeals to “freedom” are as empty as they are abundant, as is the usual claptrap about what makes America great: free markets, democracy, migrants, guns, and “independence.” These are all too specious to capture what America means or why it is so loved. Freedom, for example, is too nebulous a concept, and means something different to nearly every person. The freedom to do what matters is what is really important. Free markets can run contrary to ordinary citizens’ interests — and often do. Democracy, when paired with universal suffrage and open borders, becomes a form of terror. And while the right to bear arms is great, it hardly defines the nation. None of these adequately explain both the sacred and profane views held about this country and its people. When it comes to independence, it is a terrible irony to throw off the shackles of one oppressor only to welcome the next with open arms merely a few generations later.

There is a shallow American experience that many of us are living — a commodified McAmerica — and then there is a deep hinterland somewhere between what exists and what might have been that others feel. America has a spirit of its own that only some of us can understand. It is something you feel sitting in the parking lot of a corner store on a sultry summer night. It’s the far booth at your favorite pizza restaurant. It’s the empty street in suburbia under the glow of warm-colored streetlamps. It’s the feeling that you’re not alone, even when you are. It’s knowing that part of the country is still wild, and that anything is possible. America is a place, but it is also a feeling all around you. There are no words that fully define it. America might still exist in the hearts of those who love her, but as those people pass away, part of America dies with them — and there are fewer of them with each passing generation.

There is an open road as the Sun sets behind the trees, and the sky turns midnight blue before fading to black. You can go anywhere you want; you just can’t go back. It is something unknown and alluring. This is what America is to me.

Thinking back to those Fourth of July parties of my youth, many of the guests we welcomed are no longer living — most notably, my grandparents. Nearly as disquieting is watching those who are still living slowing down as time wears on. Witnessing family and friends who you once saw as eternally young and strong suddenly becoming old men and women is a certain kind of hell. The years roll on in the cruelest ways imaginable.

The summer nights that once lasted forever suddenly come and go with great haste. The tighter I hold on, the faster each night gives way to the morning Sun.

This year — and for as many more years as possible — I will wake up today and go for a run or bicycle ride. I’ll spend a little time at the lake, and maybe take my dirt bike for a few laps. And I will do it all with a certain deliberate speed, an intentional slowness, pretending that if I slow down for a few fleeting moments, time will slow down alongside me.

I will take an old car out into town — something from the 1990s, American-made. I’ll go for a walk, observe people with their families as they watch the fireworks, and spend a little more time in the parking lot, listening to those songs that remind me of an earlier time in my life. Maybe this year I will take my parents with me.

Come to think of it, maybe I’ll start planning a Fourth of July party of my own.

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