I've written before about summer's bookend holidays, Memorial Day and Labor Day. Both are days that call for reflection on what they commemorate. Whether we actually think about those who gave their lives in service to this country, be they veterans or activists in the cause of making this a better place for the working man and woman, is another story.
We have a new national summer holiday, Juneteenth, which commemorates the emancipation of slaves in the United States, certainly a day worthy of reflection and indeed, celebration. It has been referred to as Black Independence Day and rightfully so. Juneteenth deserves a post all its own which I promise is forthcoming.
But this post is about the other Independence Day, popularly known as the Fourth of July, or simply, The Fourth.
I would like to say that every year on fourth day of July, I dutifully read the Declaration of Independence before risking life and limb, not to mention the mental health of animals, by blowing things up. What could be more American than that?
The truth is I seldom do either of those things, but there are exceptions, see below. I did read in its entirety the Declaration of Independence the other day, whose signing in the year 1776 is what Independence Day commemorates, in case you forgot.
The Declaration is for the most part, a list of grievances against the colonial powers of the British Crown, but when we think of the document written by Thomas Jefferson, one sentence immediately comes to mind:
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
With those words, I think it's safe to say that as our Constitution is the heart of this nation, the Declaration of Independence is its soul.
That rings true despite the bitter irony that not only did its author own slaves, but also ignored half of the nation in his grand statement.
Despite the irony, it has been the words themselves serving as an ideal, that have led us more or less, in the right direction for nearly 250 years. We may not be there yet, there have been many roadblocks, there will continue to be obstacles, but I believe we will get to that promised land one day, when inspired by those words, all of us, men, women, black, white and brown, rich, poor, gay, straight, trans and cis, will have equal rights. This won't happen in my lifetime, and probably not in my children's either, but it will one day.
You see, despite everything, I am an eternal optimist.
And that's why I'm happy to celebrate the Fourth of July in whatever way I can, usually being content to let others blow stuff up while I watch.
Growing up, my family did not have any particular Fourth of July tradition, we just winged it, culminating with the obligatory witnessing of a sanctioned fireworks display. In a big city, that inevitably means a tremendous hassle, fighting the multitudes in getting to a place reasonably close to see the display. Been there, done that on several occasions, with mixed results. I distinctly remember in the mid-sixties, being stuck in gridlock on southbound Lake Shore Drive, trying to get to Soldier Field to see their fireworks show. If my memory serves, we never got there.
Because of that, more often than not, my most satisfying Fourths were spent out of town, usually in small towns in Wisconsin and Michigan.
The following is a list in no particular order, of some of my most memorable Fourth of Julys:
The most memorable, 1968: Not much to do with the holiday itself but something every Chicagoan of a certain age will understand, I went to a taping of "Bozo's Circus". The hardest ticket in town in those days, on-the-ball parents sent in their requests to WGN TV at the time of the birth of their first child, knowing the tickets would show up in the mail about eight years later, just in time before the kid would be too old for such nonsense. Hopefully there would be younger siblings to follow. No, my parents were not on the ball when I was born, it was my friend Edgars's parents who didn't have enough young kids of their own to use up all their tickets, so they invited me. I think that evening we did make it to Soldier Field for the fireworks, which paled in comparison to meeting Bozo.
The least memorable, that I actually remember, 1976: The Bicentennial of the United States was anticipated for years before the event. Consequently, when the actual day rolled around, it could not possibly live up to the hype. I vaguely recall being with my parents, standing in line for about a couple hours to see something, I can't remember what or where. I want to say it was Navy Pier to see a moon rock on display. But I don't think that makes sense because seven years after the original moon landing, the thrill would have long been gone. When the day came to an end, I do recall the song that went through my head, the refrain of a Peggy Lee tune that was popular at the time: "Is that all there is?"
The sweetest, 2002: That year, our first child was a little over one year old and we threw all caution to the wind by taking him to his first fireworks display on the Kenosha lakefront. We had a wonderful time picnicking with his grandparents and his aunt and his uncle, happily anticipating the big event with the first child in the family for at least three hours. Then it got dark, the booms began, and we discovered our little boy was totally freaked out by the noise. After two or three minutes of hysterical crying, he fell fast asleep, allowing us to enjoy the fireworks in relative peace, paradoxical as that may sound.
The most satisfying, 1997 and 1998: Before marriage and children, my wife and I liked to head up to Wisconsin where she grew up. One Fourth of July we stayed in a B&B in the city of East Troy, situated in the beautiful Kettle Moraine region of the state. Another year we headed up the coast of Lake Michigan. On the way we found a deserted beach where for the one and only time, went skinny dipping in the lake. We ended up at Port Washington, a small lakefront city where we sat on the rocks by the shore with a few thousand others, as opposed to several hundred thousand if we had stayed at home, to watch the fireworks. Perhaps my favorite Fourth of July or at the very least, tied for that title with the following.
The red, white and bluest, 1987: We did have a tradition of sorts during the eighties, when my ex-wife and I would often spend the Fourth, as well as other festive holidays, with our friend Scott, who moved to Michigan where he bought a one room schoolhouse near South Haven. One year, Scott took us to the small town of Allegan, MI, situated on the Kalamazoo River. In the shadow of the historic and truly lovely Second Street Bridge, sits a park with a gazebo, where the town band put on a concert of patriotic tunes (what else?). I have to say that corny as it sounds, there is no better place to spend the Fourth than in a small town, especially a picturesque one like Allegan. Imagine a Norman Rockwell painting of the Fourth of July and you have an idea of what it was like. It hardly mattered that the band evoked memories of the Mayberry Marching Band. If anything, their sincere if slightly less-than-virtuosic performance, made the experience all the more wonderful.
The scariest, 1988: Also with Scott, this time on the beach in South Haven. Waiting for the town's official fireworks show to begin, as is common at these events, there were several unofficial, amateur fireworks shows going on. A couple hundred yards in front of us, a tremendous blast went off, the flash occurring smack dab in the middle of a group of spectators. Then came the emergency vehicles. After about 15 minutes they cleared the scene, and I recall the show went off without a hitch, but the mood of the crowd darkened considerably. The following day in the newspaper we learned what had happened. Someone tossed a lit M-80 (a firecracker on steroids) into the crowd. It landed underneath the back of a man who was lying on the sand while propped up on his elbows. The man was seriously injured both with second and third degrees burns to his back from the blast as well as severe lacerations from the sand kicked up by the explosion.
The most historic, 1986: We happened to be in New York City visiting my friend Frank during the festivities surrounding the 100th anniversary of the Statue of Liberty. As one can see from the Wikipedia article on the event, there were four days' worth of activities celebrating the milestone including speeches by the presidents of the United States, (Ronald Reagan), and France, (François Mitterand), a flotilla including U.S. Navy warships and beautiful tall ships sailing by Lady Liberty, a concert featuring Frank Sinatra, Neil Diamond and other big stars, and the proverbial much, much more. Being big city dwellers weary of the hassle of attending such events, amplified a hundredfold by being in NYC, we avoided all of that. Instead, we chose to limit our participation to viewing the July 4th fireworks in New York Harbor from the roof of Frank's sister's apartment building in Brooklyn, about five miles away. Nevertheless, we can say were there.
The most hands on: c.1975: As I said, I typically prefer to let other people blow stuff up for me on the Fourth, but not that year. My Uncle Bob lived with his family in suburban Oak Lawn and we would spend Christmas and other holidays with them at their home. For some reason, only once did we spend the Fourth of July there, and their tradition was to shoot off fireworks in front of their home, along with everybody else on their block. Despite being somewhat timid at the outset, I even shied away from cap guns as a child, I quickly got into the swing of things and had a blast, pun intended. Nevertheless, I was still respectful of the explosives and would toss the things the instant the fuse was lit. Not so my macho father who insisted on holding on to the explosive device until the very last second before it would explode. One time he waited a little too long and the cherry bomb he was lighting, went off not exactly in his hand, but just inches from it. While everyone gasped in horror, he stoically laughed off the incident with not so much as an ouch, although I'm certain he was hurt. Clearly, I didn't inherit my old man's penchant for risk taking machismo.
The biggest wash out. 1999: Another thing I didn't inherit, was my late friend Janet's patience. She was the kind of person who would obtain a ridiculously hard-to-find parking space on her block by putting the blinkers on and wait for someone to show up to move their car. I on the other hand had no patience for that, preferring to drive around for blocks looking for an available spot, sometimes parking a mile or two away. In the end of course, her way would be far more efficient, both in terms of distance, and time. So, it makes perfect sense that Janet and her partner Dave, also a dear friend who was equally patient, would have no problem staking out a spot to watch the official Chicago fireworks show, ten, perhaps twelve hours before the event. That year we joined them around 3pm on the holiday, picnicking on a berm above the Grant Park parking garage on Monroe Street. I believe Dave set up camp around 10am and was there the entire time. We had a wonderful time until we noticed the sky was becoming darker and darker. If we had smartphones back then with up-to-the-minute weather forecasts, we might have taken cover. Instead, we hoped for the best and boy did we pay the price. Nevertheless, it was one of the last and best times we had with this wonderful couple, so it was all worth it, not a washout at all.
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| Janet on the right, with my wife and me waiting for the fireworks that would never come. Photo by Dave. |
The farthest away, 1996 and 1997: Those two consecutive years I happened to be out of the country for the Fourth of July, 1996 in Barcelona and 1997, in Yamagata, Japan. Both times my hosts wished me a very happy Independence Day, reminding me of something I had completely overlooked. How people in other countries view Americans is what originally inspired this post, but I've gotten side-tracked, and that post will have wait for another day.
The most Zenlike, c. 2018: For the last several years, my son and I have been invited to a party at the home of our friends who are fellow baseball parents. Today we unfortunately won't be able to make it because of other commitments. At these parties, adult beverages are served and as the festivities usually begin in the early afternoon, by the time it gets dark well, you get the picture. Anyway, one year our host Ricky, brought out a Chinese lantern, effectively a miniature hot air balloon, consisting of a paper structure, open at the bottom, suspended over a candle. The lit candle heats up the air inside the paper "balloon" and once the air is hot enough, the whole assemblage, candle and all lifts off, much like a balloon filled with helium. Unlike a helium balloon, the candle illuminates the paper lantern so its voyage to wherever the air current takes it can be viewed for several minutes, much like a rocket blasting off at night. I had never seen one of these before and between the chaos of the fireworks going off in the surrounding neighborhood and the room zooms caused by the alcohol running through my bloodstream, I stood there transfixed, watching this little toy, the most satisfying (and quiet) firework of them all, make its one and only journey to God knows where. It's an image that will remain with me the rest of my life.
Then there was last year, 2022: Fourth of Julys have been less momentous for my wife and me since our parade and firecracker hating kids came along, Last year was set to be no different. But around 10:30 am, I walked into the kitchen and heard a report on the radio of yet another mass shooting in the United States. This report was different as the voices of the reporters on the scene were familiar, they were local reporters.
It was at an annual Fourth of July Parade in the Chicago suburb of Highland Park where a young man with a high-powered assault style rifle, perched himself on the roof of a commercial building along the parade route, and began shooting indiscriminately at spectators and participants. In the end, he killed seven people and wounded 48. Not long after hearing the initial report, my thoughts immediately turned to a friend, my friend Frank's godson, who lives in the suburb with his wife their two small children. Certainly, I thought, they had to have been at the parade. Turns out they were, but as I found out hours later, to my relief, they were not on the same block as the shooter.
Later that day, reports came out about a doctor on the scene as a spectator, who attended to several victims, most likely saving at least a few of their lives. His name is Dr. David Baum, the obstetrician who delivered our first child in 2001. In this article from CNN, you can read Dr. Baum's graphic descriptions of the injuries he saw that day.
The next day I saw a Facebook post from a friend and fellow parent at my kids' former elementary school. He reported the devastating news of the death of his father, one of the victims of the shooting. Here is an article with the stories of the seven people who died that tragic day one year ago. My friend's father was Steven Strauss.
For the victims and their loved ones, those present at the scene, the people of Highland Park, and to a slightly lesser extent everyone in the Chicago Metropolitan area, the Fourth of July will never be the same. To many of us, myself included, it will forever be a day of grief, mourning and loss as much as a day of celebration.
It's a little hard to put into perspective what that all means. All I can say is this: it's hardly surprising that on the most American of holidays, the most American of tragedies would take place.
I love my country, but I'm troubled.
I'm reminded of this recent video published by my favorite YouTube language teacher, Juan Fernandez. A Spanish ex-pat living in London, in the video Fernandez returns to Spain and lists many of the things he loves and misses about his country. Then after each item on the list he adds, "pero eso no es lo que me gusta mas de España" (but that isn't what I like most about Spain.). After about a dozen times repeating that phrase, he wraps up the video (spoiler alert) with this thought: "Lo mejor de España es la gente." The best thing about Spain is the people. Then the screen goes dark.
Not long ago, I would have said the same thing about my country.
I used to think that despite our differences of opinion, at heart, we Americans all shared a devotion to the core values of this nation as spelled out by Jefferson in the Declaration of Independence, especially the part about self-evident truths and all of us being created equal.
But now I'm not so sure. It seems too many of us think men and women are created equal, have the unalienable rights Jefferson mentions, and I might add the right to vote, so long as they look, act and think like us.
I used to think we all shared a passion and respect for democracy, and a profound disgust for totalitarianism in all its forms.
But it seems that a lot of us show a true admiration for dictators, both real ones abroad, and wannabie ones over here.
I used to think that we all understood the difference between facts and opinions.
But scores of us don't recognize that while everyone is entitled to their own opinions, no one is entailed to their own facts.
And I used to think we all paid heed to the words of Abraham Lincoln who quoting the Bible, said this:
A house divided against itself cannot stand.
But there are bad actors, mostly politicians and their enablers who, rather than seeking compromise and consensus, as is required of a working democracy, use the oldest rick in the book of tyrants. They gain power by purposefully dividing the public against itself by exploiting fear, anger and hatred, then saying things like: "only I can solve our nation's problems" and "they're not coming after me, they're coming after YOU." Worst of all, there are far too many of us who gladly follow these people.
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