When I think of the Fourth of July and my childhood, I think of fireworks. My maternal grandparents lived on the first floor of an apartment building high on a hill overlooking New York Bay on Staten Island. My mother’s youngest sister, Nadine, is only twenty months older than I am. I remember visiting one July when I was eight. We liked to play with the older children who lived down the street. Nadine and I were thrilled to hear they planned to make firecrackers to set off on their lawn on the Fourth, and they invited us to help. They showed us the powders and fuses they had bought. Nadine, the scientist, was particularly interested––she had asked for a chemistry set for her August birthday. Naively, and unfortunately, we mentioned our helping make firecrackers to my grandmother. So, of course, she forbade us to go.

However, the night of the Fourth, we had a grand view of the fireworks over New York Bay. We could see the display from the apartment’s east windows, but we chose to watch outdoors. The patio overlooked the Bay and Manhattan, where the skyscrapers were an impressive backdrop for the fireworks display.

Mary, Mom’s other sister, who was going into her senior year in high school, was with us. I had just said, “Oh, there’s the Statue of Liberty!” Mary asked, “Do you want to hear what’s written on the plaque? I had to memorize this for school––

‘Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’”

I didn’t understand all the words but it sounded grand. It made me feel good that we were helping people. Mary then said, “Our ancestors were welcomed here.”

That night, I realized the connection between the national anthem we sung in school, the Star-Spangled Banner, with its “rocket’s red glare” and this display of fireworks going on over our heads. It was thrilling: the whole idea of the lyrics––the flag still standing––the words on the Statue of Liberty, and this dramatic display against the Manhattan skyline was all so spectacular. I remember feeling a sense of pride, elation even, of being an American. I am an American, I realized.

I might have been eleven or twelve when Nadine, almost thirteen, was visiting us from Staten Island. There was a fundraising rummage sale at Lincoln Hall, a reform school for boys. It was not too far away. The sale would be followed in the evening by fireworks. Nadine and I sat on a grassy knoll, and just across from us sat the reform-school boys. We were wearing white skirts with sunflowers, like sister skirts, even though we were aunt and niece. While the fireworks display exploded in magnificent colors and patterns over our heads, Nadine kept exclaiming about the “plaid fireworks!” I kept saying, “Where are they? I don’t see them.” Clueless, as an eleven-year-old, it took me a long time before I caught on to the soon-to-be teenage girl’s point of view. The idea that boys could set off fireworks in mysterious ways I had yet to discover.

The last Fourth of July that I remember being with my mother, she was living at Congregate Housing for seniors in Ridgefield. She knew she would soon have to go to a nursing home. Mom was not that enthusiastic about the Fourth that year. In fact, she was depressed. I knew how down she was because she didn’t want to go to the window and see the fireworks. In the past, she would have been delighted to watch. Her decline made me sad. This was a time when even the display of fireworks could not elevate her spirit, nor mine.

Now, where I live, I can walk down the street and see the fireworks through the trees under the night sky. The display is set off at the bottom of the hill at the high school nearby. Because of Covid, there were no fireworks last year. However, the year before last, my niece, Laura, joined me to watch. We sat on low folding chairs. It was a pleasant, clear night, and comfortably warm. There’s a lovely intimacy about being outside, in the dark, enjoying an event that is made entirely for the outdoors. We delighted in the spectacle of explosions of color and form and thunderous sound in the night sky.

This year I will again take a folding chair and walk down the street to experience the thrill of fireworks. Writing these memories of fireworks from different ages of my life, the sweet, the sad, the funny, and the spirit-filled, has been a delightful way to anticipate the holiday celebration this year. I wonder what memories you have of past Fourth of July fireworks displays. Will you be watching fireworks this year? I hope you’ll let me know your favorite memories and your plans.

This is reprinted from Jane Knox’s blog The Ageless Goddess.