The Long Way Home
There was a time when the Fourth of July belonged to everyone else.
For ten years as police chief, it began before sunrise and ended long after the last firework faded into the summer sky. There were parade routes to secure, officers to assign, lost children to reunite with anxious parents, and too many intoxicated people convinced they were making perfectly reasonable decisions. For us in uniform, it wasn't a holiday so much as a long day of helping everyone else enjoy theirs.
We stood inside the celebration without ever quite belonging to it.
Each year I drove our department's restored 1967 Ford Interceptor in the parade, cranking the old mechanical siren and wishing the crowd a happy Independence Day over the loudspeaker. Children waved. Veterans saluted. Families lined the sidewalks shoulder to shoulder. Horses clopped past, marching bands filled the streets, airplanes crossed overhead, and by evening thousands gathered in the park for fireworks that lit the valley.
The applause always belonged to the community. And the work belonged to us.
Long before those parades existed, when I was a young officer lucky enough to have the day off, I'd drive to my parents' house. Friends would gather around my father's barbecue while my mother made sure no one left hungry. As darkness settled over the hills, we'd watch fireworks bloom in the distance from their backyard.
My father and I one 4th of July
At the time, I thought I was simply enjoying another holiday. I didn't realize I was collecting memories.
The city no longer holds its fireworks show. Budgets changed. There were environmental concerns. Priorities shifted. Time, as it always does, moved quietly on.
So did I.
This year my wife and I have our son home for the holiday. He serves in the military now, along with a friend who was fortunate enough to receive leave and join us. Watching them around our table, I found myself thinking of my parents.
Perhaps this is how they felt when I came home.
There comes a season when you realize the holiday was never really about fireworks or parades. Those were beautiful, but they were only the backdrop.The real celebration was always the people who made the trip home.
The real celebration are the ones you love.
Freedom is often spoken of in grand language. But maybe its truest expression is something smaller. The chance to gather with the people you love, to share a meal without hurry, to laugh at old stories, and for one summer evening set aside the burdens that wait for us tomorrow.
Those moments pass more quickly than we know. I'm grateful I still have one.
Happy Independence Day.
