BY MICHELE MILLER
What’s What New Port Richey
The grainy photo of the kids standing in the back of an old pickup, dressed in red, white and blue and waving American flags pops up every year around this time as a reminder on social media.
It’s a well-etched memory of days gone by. When the kids were young (or not born yet). When we lived in a part of the country where Independence Day was a HUGE deal. When there wasn’t a pandemic going on.
I grew up in and around the place where it all started; people so proud of their New England heritage that everyone had a story to tell about an ancestor or two who came over on the Mayflower or took part in the Boston Tea Party.
According to local lore it was a much bigger protest than historians thought.
School field trips brought us to see the birthplace of Abigail Adams, Old Ironsides, the North Church, down the Freedom Trail and along the Charles River made famous by the Standells’ tune, “Dirty Water”, and the annual Fourth of July concert and fireworks display held at the Esplanade.
From the Boston suburbs we could hear the muddled sound of blasting howitzer cannons and fireworks while watching the Boston Pops play the 1812 Overture on TV; see the tops of the fiery plumes from a “necking” overlook called Great Hill.
The old photograph of the kids in the pickup truck dates back to my twenty-something years, when we would round up the kids for a celebration that included a parade, a back-yard barbecue and wiffle ball.
In the evening we’d pack up sweatshirts and bug spray and head to the harbor, the kids chasing fireflies and each other as the community band played John Philip Sousa marches from the gazebo.
Small-town stuff.
Looking back, it’s a heart-tug for sure, especially in a time when we’re grappling with how to honor the country’s summer birthday and other celebratory occasions.
Some started a bit early, I’ve heard, prompting frantic, “Did anyone else just hear gunshots?!” inquiries on the neighborhood social media page.
Nah, it’s just that time of year again. Bombs bursting in air and all.
I’ve never understood the lure of spending hard-earned money on backyard, front yard and street fireworks that make way too much noise, sometimes land on the roof, and leave a mess for others to clean up come morning.
Makes it a little hard to feel neighborly.
I guess all those news stories my mother reiterated about people accidentally lighting things on fire or blowing off fingers stuck with me. It hit home for real when I was covering the annual Sparklebration in 2012 at the Pasco County Fairgrounds for the Pasco Times, and a faulty mortar exploded early on, causing burns and shrapnel wounds to a worker’s hands and face.
And those were set off by “professionals.”
The annual amateur fireworks display is a mild annoyance for me. Stay up till it’s over. Keep a hose handy. Roll with it.
But the holiday is a dreaded occasion for others.
There’s animal lovers who stay home to make sure things don’t get destroyed by a frantic pet, or have to invest in Thundershirts and doggie-tranquilizers to settle them.
For veterans who fought in war, the sound of fireworks can be a source of trauma, conjuring memories many of us are fortunate not to realize – more like a return to a war zone than a celebratory occasion, I’m guessing.
Maybe we can honor them, our country and our neighbors this year by taking it down a notch?
Or perhaps just skip the ‘bombs bursting in air’ altogether and take in a little Sousa march instead – maybe a little Stars and Stripes Forever.
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