After all these years, I am just beginning to discern why this holiday memory endures so vividly:
Public park. Large field. New Jersey. The dusk of a distant July 4th. The first for my first son. He was very excited. And by excited, I mean one of those hand-jiggling, jumping up and down, Oh-my-God-the-ice-cream-truck-is-coming excitements that’s way out of proportion to the event.
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But such an innocent delight to witness. I was excited too. I had always loved fireworks. They were unusual events, arriving only annually, right after my birthday, in summertime darkness with my parents, who were immigrants.
The surrounding crowd was there for the very same reason, though they may have been unaware of my birthday. Everyone was happy. The entire country was happy. Something big was about to happen. Everyone knew it. Not sure what. It was a little scary. But it was a good-scary.
My son