“The second day of July 1776, will be the most memorable epocha in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion, to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward, forevermore.”
With this letter to his wife Abigail, John Adams captured the spirit of Independence Day celebrations yet to come. And while Adams prophesied the tenor of future celebrations he missed the party by two days. The second was indeed a day for celebration as, on that date, independence was declared by the Continental Congress. On the fourth, the day we chose to celebrate, Congress voted to put the deed in writing, approving The Declaration of Independence, written for the most part as we all know (or should know) by Thomas Jefferson with some editing by some of his Congressional colleagues.
During my suburban youth, anticipation of the Fourth began around the middle of June. It was about that time that we would start to see the wooden fireworks booths show up on the El Camino Real, the main thoroughfare that ran North and South through the San Francisco Peninsula. The booths started as bare wooden shells but were soon decorated with red, white and blue signs, bunting and that familiar Red Devil logo.
Going to the fireworks stand was right up there with getting the Halloween costume or buying the family Christmas tree. It put the official seal on an upcoming holiday. The Red Devil booth always had a chicken wire screen across the front opening which we peered through to browse the various assortments. Assortments went by names us kids soon became familiar with. There were the Old Glory and Pirate packs; smallish boxes that didn’t warrant a second glance. Kids would pray that dad wouldn’t be so cheap as to buy one of those pitiful assortments. One of those mini assortments meant certain neighborhood mortification for a kid. We went straight for the huge Big Timer and Block Party assortments; dreams that went unfulfilled because the old man realized that this was an investment that would literally go up in smoke and he wasn't going to pony up 60 dollars. Dad usually settled for one of the mid-sized assortments like the Colorama or Oriental Dragon. If he was feeling particularly patriotic (read: had a few spare bucks) he might buy a couple extra giant fountain cones from the “a la carte” menu. Purchase made, we brought it home for dad to stash away until the Fourth. As June turned to July we were reminded of the impending big day by the increasing pops of firecrackers and detonations of M-80s. When we got older we were allowed to have firecrackers. They were quite illegal but some dad in the neighborhood usually came up with a few packs. Sometimes an older kid in the neighborhood, usually one of the “toughs” who smoked in the back fields, would sell us some of the pyrotechnic contraband. We imagined that our firecracker connections got their goods from some gang members in a dark Chinatown alley. Friends and I would collect rotten apples from under my family’s tree, hollow out a hole with a nail, stuff in a firecracker, light it and toss the fruit grenade over the back fence.
On the afternoon of the big day, parents started to ration out some of the goodies from the fireworks boxes. We were given the little boxes of Black Snakes, small black tablets that when ignited emitted a coil of ash that resembled a black crepe worm. Afternoon turned to evening and dad would start the barbecue. After dinner as the skies darkened we would use the coals in the barbecue to light some sparklers as the next preliminary to the big show.
Darkness fell, families gathered on their driveways and the show began. We sorted through the assortment because it was important to the success of a display to set off the fireworks in just the right order, leaving the biggest cones for our grand finale. Dad would be sure to heed the warning printed on the side of each firework: Warning: Emits a shower of sparks. Set on level surface. Light fuse and get away. Do not hold in hand. Do not hold in hand; we marveled that anyone would be stupid enough to actually hold those things while it was in its showering glory. A kid’s rite of passage was to earn the privilege of being the one to “light fuse and get away.” We covered our ears for the shrieking Piccolo Pete and Calliope Vesuvius and ooohed and aahhhed at cones called Silver Flower Fountain, Super Jumbo Cone and Yankee Doodle Salute. At evening’s end Dad would gather the corpses of dead fireworks into the center of the driveway give them a quick spray with the garden hose and leave them to be picked up the next morning. We never did go see the big fireworks display in San Francisco which often, almost as if by tradition, would be hidden by the famous fog bank. To this day I’ve still never seen the San Francisco display.
Since my youth my observance of the Fourth has changed. I’ve taken in some July 4th ball games, watching either the A’s or the Giants. One year my wife and I spent the Fourth in the Sierra back country where we pitched our tent near a mountain lake that we had all to ourselves. During a brief stint of Civil War reenacting I marched in the Redwood City Fourth of July parade and a year later spent the long weekend at Gettysburg, taking part in the reenactment of the great battle.
The “safe and sane” fireworks have long disappeared, having been outlawed in nearly every Bay Area community. After getting married and having kids, we moved to the East Bay and every Fourth we brought the children to see one of the local community displays over San Pablo Bay. As the kids got older we focused less on the fireworks and more on barbecue, inviting friends and family over for ribs, links, cornbread and salads.
Nowadays, I still tend the barbecue and my wife makes the salads. After everyone has had their fill of ribs and chicken, and darkness falls my children will bring their their children to watch the fireworks. My son's wife is a nurse now and there will be times when her patriotic observance will be duty at the VA Hospital; and you know there might not be a better gig on the Fourth of July than taking care of our veterans. My son-in-law is a firefighter and his Fourth will often be observed by pulling duty and possibly tending to some knot head who contrary to the instructions didn't get away after lighting fuse or held a Yankee Doodle Salute in his hand.
I still enjoy the Fourth of July. I enjoy it because it’s a time for family and friends. It’s a chance to see the excitement of my children's young families and their anticipation of the big booms and bright cascading showers. Our nation has made more than it's share of mistakes. It is after all made up of fallible people who through either good intentions or bad sometimes lead us down the wrong path. But it is a nation that was founded on a unique ideal and it has tried to live up to those ideals and in very many instances has succeeded. And so I also enjoy the Fourth because it’s a good day to just reflect on our country being a pretty doggone good place to be.
This really brings back great memories! The only thing I might add is that on the Fourth of July in the San Francisco Bay Area, it was always freezing cold. We'd be on the street dressed in coats and scarves, with our sparklers in our hands.
ReplyDeleteI remember that Susan. It always seemed that the Fourth was one of the coldest days of the year. This was one of the reasons my parents never wanted to take in the SF display; a frigid afternoon and evening right at the bay side. That and the traffic.
ReplyDeleteMy friend, you did a great job recreating those July 4th weekends in San Mateo county. The parents sitting in lawn chairs on driveways, sipping a beer or glass of wine. Those Red Devil stands on El Camino Real. Knowing that it was extremely likely that the local fireworks displays would be a frost (literally and in slang terms) because of fog banks, those marvels of coast-side living that never failed to astonish our relatives who visited from New York. The best part of your comments was the last line. People still yearn to come to America because, regardless of its faults, it's still a great place to live.
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