It seems a bit early to wish you a happy Independence Day, because you see, for me, my Fourth of July arrived on the Sixth. That’s the day my mother was born. She was, is, my America. 

I often wonder about that day. Did it feel like a slice of Americana? He in his overalls. She in her house dress, stretched to the limit. Did the back of Grandma Elsie’s thighs stick to the unairconditioned truck seat as they made their way to town? Did one of the Zavadil boys run alongside the road with the last of the sparklers, freezing the cows behind the fence? Certainly everyone was doing chores. There was no vacation days from the farms. 

And were there still a few streamers left from the parade as they made their way on Broadway? Did the hospital still fly the flag, or were they back to the whites? Did the doctor look a little extra tan from the picnic two days earlier? 

And when she arrived, on what would ever be my holiday of choice, (now with one boy and one girl and a farm), did they say, “This is our America?” Or did they simply know they were home?

I suppose, I often hope, that it might be the same for everyone. Sure, America is the golden dream, the grand experiment, but for most I think, for Americans, it is the used Chevy Malibu that drove you to the softball game. It is the agonizing and glorious gathering of one hour after hot dogs, before entering the water. The drive down broadway. The familiar. The hope of what’s to come. It is family, and friends, both that sparkle with a loud “tis of thee!”

So happy 4th! I celebrate with you! And when the 6th arrives, I invite you to do the same! We’re all in this together. Every day!