Last Saturday our borough held the quintessential Independence Day celebration. It opened with a concert by the men's a cappella group that has warmed our hearts for twenty five years. Then the parade commenced with a Boy Scout troop in full regalia, and a hundred children using all manner of locomotion from bike trailers to wagons. Fire trucks came next, lights flashing and sirens blasting.

Everyone was wearing a combo of red, white and blue, with variations in stripes and flagwear. Kids were intent on not crashing into the bike in front, until a familiar voice called from the sidelines, and it became all important to wave to Grandma. It was important to Grandma too.

The raising of the flag came next, and when the impeccably folded flag did not unfold on its way up the pole, the Eagle Scouts brought it back down for a tug. The crowd cheered as it spread its wings in the wind on the way to the sky. 

While some people had hoped that the pair of eagles that are nesting in town might give us a fly by, it was not to be. 

The main speaker talked about freedom and the price paid for it in 1776. Then came the sweet tradition of the bell. Every veteran was invited to come ring it, to commemorate the sound that rang in Philadelphia at the signing of the Declaration. Included in the throng was a woman in her nineties.

The day filled out with races, including a three legged one for married couples. Sometimes that image comes back to me, when John and I are stumbling along on some shared effort.  

The evening brought a picnic, sparklers, and the magnificent fireworks. It was small town America at its best. I was grateful to know what to expect for an entire day, to balance out all the ones that catch me by surprise.