Bluefield Daily Telegraph, Bluefield, WV

Lifestyles

Discussion

July 4, 2010

The freedom of an American child

By JAMIE PARSELL Bluefield Daily Telegraph

BLUEFIELD — When dusk would fall on the Fourth of July, the engine rumbled in anticipation for a trip into town. The sound prompted car doors to slam shut and seat belts to click in unison. It didn’t matter whose hands were still dirty or who had red popsicle dripping from their chin. All eyes were on the sky, watching the world change from dusty orange and gray to dark blue, then purple and finally pitch black. As the moon began to rise, we drove down Route 20 towards the action.

I was always afraid — the fireworks might start before our family vehicle could find a parking space. I didn’t want to miss the mid-summer celebration of the nation’s holiday. The summer would feel incomplete without a firework display in red, white, green and blue. I could only relax when the engine stopped and we lined up in front of the vehicle, waiting for the first loud boom. Dirty from summer’s play, I would stand silent during the entire fireworks show. To talk seemed disrespectful, almost like a classroom disruption  during the school months.

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Around the Four Seasons area, fireworks have lit up in the night sky in Princeton, Bluefield and even in small communities in Virginia. As a child, I remember standing on the side of Highway 460, looking at the sky in Green Valley. The former Hills Department store was just one of many places where local residents gathered to pay tribute to America’s birthday. Near that same area, fireworks lit up the night over Mercer Mall in Bluefield. Sometimes, we watched from the backseat of the car. Other times, we sat on the hood, swinging our feet in tune with the humid summer night, swatting at pesky mosquitoes.

 But my favorite place — a front row seat for every boom — was at my grandmother’s house in Princeton. We would arrive hours before nightfall, carrying watermelons and jars for lightening bugs. As dusk fell, we would race around the yard in bare feet, stopping to catch the bright yellow bugs. We forced the bugs into jars, wiping our hands on shorts and T-shirts. When the moon glowed, everyone would walk to the edge of the street. Some carried blankets or chairs for comfort. I liked to sit on the ground, running my hands through the sweet grass. But we were not alone. The neighbors came, with their friends and family.

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We made up our own community in those days. We were all neighbors, but connected in different ways. On that patch of grass, I could easily see my fourth grade teacher, our family’s former dentist, church friends and of course, my family. Sometimes friends, outside of the neighborhood, would drive over to watch the fireworks. Babies squealed in delight; other covered their ears and eyes. Some ignored the fireworks and ran around the group with water guns and toys. As for the adults, the conversation always stopped with the first loud boom. Occasionally, someone would whisper, “That was a good one.”

I can’t remember a bad Fourth of July. Even when our family couldn’t drive into town for fireworks, I ran up and down the driveway, sparkler in hand. I figured there were other ways to celebrate the nation’s birthday. One can list all the clichés of today’s holiday — hot dogs, apple pie, ice cream cones, firecrackers. I am sure we have all experienced at least one in our lifetime. But traditions, even those like apple pie, change — fireworks are now scattered across the area. Someone might eat pizza instead of a hot dog today. And our family won’t pile into the truck, dirty and sweaty from a hot summer day. I miss those times. But I am thankful for the memories and more importantly, the freedom to experience life as an American child.

Jamie Parsell is the Lifestyle editor of the Daily Telegraph. Contact her at jparsell@bdtonline.com.

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