Memories of Childhood Fourth of July Celebrations

I don’t remember too much about Independence Day celebrations when I was a kid. I’ve written about the flags someone gave my brother and me when I was about seven, and the trauma that our misuse of those flags caused me. That year, the Fourth of July was more problem than pleasure.

My parents never allowed us to have any serious fireworks, only sparklers. And we didn’t get sparklers every year. I think I was about eight before we had them the first time. My parents hadn’t bought them for us—they were a gift from a family friend. My brother and I were only permitted to hold the fizzling sticks briefly, then we were instructed to plant them in the grass, so we wouldn’t burn our hands.

I used to envy other kids who got more exciting fireworks, though I feared the noise. Plus, I heard all the news stories about people burning limbs and losing eyes, and I was afraid that might happen to me.

The big fireworks displays were more fun, anyway. Well before our sparkler days, I had been to community fireworks events. As I recall, there were only one or two displays in Richland, Washington, and we couldn’t see them from our house, so we had to drive to a park to watch. It was already past bedtime when we left the house to drive across town. When we got there, my dad had to circle around looking for parking. Sometimes we had to walk blocks to see anything.

But once we got settled, on a blanket, slathered with mosquito repellent, I oohed and aahed over the huge starbursts in the sky. Each one was a different color, and many of them changed colors as the burning bits fell.

My dad bought a boat when I was in the seventh or eighth grade, and once or twice during my high-school years we took the boat to watch fireworks. But more frequently, we drove. Dad didn’t want to drive the boat in traffic late at night.

The biggest display of fireworks I remember was sometime between 1971 and 1973, when we drove from our cabin on Coeur d’Alene Lake in Idaho toward the town. We sat on the hood of the car (something my father almost never permitted) and watched the fireworks shot over the water. The reflection of the pyrotechnics in the lake made the display seem twice as big.

There were a few years when our family skipped the fireworks. In fact, the fireworks, coming late at night, always seemed an afterthought. For me, the novelty of the holiday was often that my dad was home for a day in the middle of the week. Unlike other holidays, the Fourth of July was always on the Fourth, it was never moved to the nearest Monday.

So in the middle of long, hot summers, the Fourth of July was an oddity—a day for family togetherness when most days when school was out were full of boring sameness. On the Fourth of July, our family would boat and/or picnic, often with friends. We came home sweaty and cranky, not even wanting to stay up late for the fireworks.

In 1970, I was out of the country on the Fourth of July, somewhere in Europe—I don’t even remember where. I do remember that it felt odd to be away. I wore red, white, and blue, as did many of the students I was with. But that was the only celebration we had that year.

What do you remember about Fourth of July celebrations in your childhood?