Stories of the Fourth

Fourth of July

The Fourth of July – the day the United States celebrates its independence from the British.  Sure there’s all the technicalities – the Continental Congress passed the Declaration on July 2nd, a majority of states didn’t approve until July 9th, and the final state didn’t sign on until August.  But we have established the Fourth of July as THE day to celebrate.  Even in those first years we Americans celebrated with fireworks – and today we continue that tradition.

When I think of the Fourth, I go back to Cincinnati, when my parents took all of us kids to the fireworks in St. Bernard, Ohio.  Why St. Bernard, a little municipality squeezed in between Proctor and Gamble’s soap factory (“Ivory Dale”) and Vine Street?  Maybe it was Dad’s tradition – it was just down the road from Mitchell Avenue where he grew up.  Anyway, I still remember sitting on a hill watching my first fireworks and worrying about how loud the “booms” were.

No worries now; I am a fireworks guy.  I still stand with my head tilted back – mouth slightly open to catch any wayward mosquitoes — staring in awe.  It wasn’t on the Fourth, but that position got me in trouble at the 1973 Boy Scout National Jamboree.  They must have misjudged how close the crowded kids were to the launch site.  Ashes were raining down on us, and I got a real “taste” for the fireworks.  On the other hand, the booms were never again so close and loud – I liked it!

So here are three stories of the Fourth – mostly about fireworks and locations, but also about celebrating America.

Olympian Fourth 

In the 1980’s I spent several summers learning as much as I could about track and field.  I went to “camps” for athletes, and hung out with the coaches to absorb as much as I could.   One of those camps was at Indiana University in Bloomington.  I got the chance to “hang out” with Sam Bell, one of the top coaches of that era, and his world class  staff. Marshall Goss was a leading national pole vault coach, a high school teacher who coached at the college, and Phil Henson had a PhD in physiology which he applied to his world class jumpers. 

We were there over the Fourth of July, and on that evening, we took the “kids” and staff to see the local Bloomington fireworks.  I sat with the staff.  On one side was Sunder Nix, Olympic Gold Medalist in the 4×400 relay.  On the other side was Dave Volz, a world class pole vaulter who would eventually compete in the 1992 Olympic Games.  They were enjoying the fireworks just like everyone else – and yet they earned the uniform to represent the United States in world competitions.  It brought home to me the reality that great athletes are “regular” folks, enjoying the fireworks and the conversation.  

And it was an honor to realize I was learning from them, and from their coaches.  They were among the best in the world, and they were sharing all that experience and knowledge with a young high school coach from Pataskala. 

Road Trip Fourth

Earlier this year, I wrote about the “road trip” I took with three other coaches. We were in our twenties and decided to rent a van, and set off across the country.  Our route took us all the way to the Oregon coast, down to Mexico, and then back across the nation.  We arrived in Colorado around the Fourth of July, and decided to spend the holiday in Aspen.  

To get to Aspen from our hotel we had to cross over Independence Pass at 12,000 feet in altitude.  So we celebrated the morning of the Fourth with a snowball fight, then headed down to the festivities in Aspen.  They had the big field on the edge of town all prepped for a celebration, and the fireworks set up on the slopes above.  We established our “camp”, then one of the other coaches and I wandered off to explore the town.  One bar led to another, and by the time we got back to our “camp”, the combination of alcohol and altitude made navigation a little rough.

As dark fell, I remember amazing fireworks on the mountain, followed by even more amazing stars.  What I’m not so sure of, is the trip back over Independence Pass to our hotel.  But I wasn’t driving, and we negotiated the winding road safely.

Quiet Fourth

My parents lived an amazing life.  They had sixty-eight years together, madly in love.  They changed how American television worked, raised a family, and travelled the world.  It was only in the last few years that life got sadder.  Mom’s lungs began to fail, and she was tethered to increasing levels of oxygen machines.  Dad started to lose his memory.  So for the first ninety years they were great – for the last few years, not so much.

I don’t quite remember what crisis took me down to Cincinnati that Fourth of July weekend.  Mom was still at home, and Dad was doing his best to take care of her.  It’s really not fair:  the oxygen tanks require tiny washers fitted into the connections.  The hearing aids use the smallest batteries imaginable.  All when eyes are failing, and arthritis binds hands and fingers – no wonder Dad got frustrated.  Mom depended on him, and he was trying his best. 

So I was down at their house quite a lot. I wanted to see both of them, and give them a break from the pressure of taking care of themselves.  After a couple days though, it was time to head home. I left in the evening of the Fourth after dinner, heading back home to Pataskala, an early morning track practice scheduled for the Fifth.  But it was the Fourth of July, and I was a little sad to miss fireworks for the first time – ever.

Small Town Fourth

But I didn’t miss the fireworks at all.  It was a quiet drive up I-71 from Cincinnati – there isn’t a whole lot of traffic on the night of the Fourth.  The top was off the Jeep, and the warm summer air felt good.  And then I got my Fourth of July surprise.

Every small town in Ohio has its own fireworks on the Fourth.  They aren’t the “RED, WHITE, AND BOOM” grandiose celebration of downtown Columbus.  But they are fifteen or twenty minutes long, with a buildup to the “grand finale”. And since the towns aren’t too far apart, they stagger the starting time –  from sometime just after nine until ten.

So I cruised up I-71 in the open Jeep, watching multiple fireworks shows in multiple towns.  There were three finales, and they all seemed to be just for me. Small town America put on a great show.  But my last “finale” wasn’t quite as pleasant.  The kids near the State Route 56 exit were putting on their own show, firing bottle rockets at the passing cars on the Interstate.  That has a whole different meaning in an open Jeep!

The Dream Fourth

That experience led to my “dream” Fourth of July.  I want to rent a small plane (with a pilot, of course). Jenn and I will takeoff just as the sun sets on the evening of the Fourth.  Then we’ll fly out over rural Ohio, watching the fireworks shows from overhead, different towns at different times – and high enough to stay out of the line of fire.  It’s got to be a spectacular view.

That’s my dream – but this year it’s a “regular” Fourth.  The fireworks here in Pataskala are on Saturday night (the Third), and with five dogs in the house, we’re going to stay close to home.  But we’ll get to see some of them – and, in this time of such deep divisions, remember once again the celebration of Independence that unites us.  

Happy Fourth!!!!