The ideas, rants, rambles, reads and writings of a growing human.
The Fourth of July has never been a very important holiday to me. Despite the fact that it is literally the day the thirteen colonies declared independence from England therefore creating the United States of America, I’ve never really cared about it. I think years of the fuss being over plasticky stars and stripes party decor, paper plates, cold macaroni salad, and that gross fruit and whipped cream dessert thing in the shape of a flag that I promise you will find at every single picnic, has turned me stale. Don’t get me wrong, I love fireworks but even they seem a bit bland in the face of what we’re really supposed to be celebrating.
Until this year, I hadn’t thought much at all about our country, or felt anything other than boredom on the fourth. Maybe I’m just getting older and are more aware, or was just in a really strange, philosophical mood but while we drove through our little town at sunset, just before nine o’clock, I felt this incredible sense of unity in the fact that everyone in our county was either setting off, or getting ready to watch fireworks in friend’s backyards, crowded parks, grassy lawns, and mosquito infested lakes sides. All at the same time to celebrate the same thing. Then I started to think about the people all over the country as night started to engulf their corner of the sky, spreading out wide blankets, creaking open dusty lawn chairs, plopping down on soggy, wet grass, to watch the skies light up and feel the ground shake with the wonder and grand yet simple joy of fireworks.
And it wasn’t the prospect of the violent, blinding explosions that we call fireworks that had me enamored by this thought. It was the huge sense of unity in this celebration that I had never felt before. This feeling is what we are supposed to be celebrating.
Told you I was feeling philosophical.