Remembering the Fourth of July

Atlanta, GA

July 4, 2021

In 1999, not long after I started working for Delta Air Lines, Rita and I went to Vancouver. We spent a couple days there, then drove up the spectacular Sea to Sky Highway, to enjoy a few more in Whistler.

One of them was July 4, when we walked through several inches of snow atop Whistler Mountain. We took a couple other days to enjoy the town, inspect a few condos we should’ve bought, and to lounge beside or on Green Lake, soaking in scenery as sublime as any we’d ever seen.

My feelings about the Fourth of July can be mixed, so it’s perhaps fitting that one of my favorites was spent outside the US. Not that I don’t honor what this day commemorates. I love that part. That thirteen states would declare their sovereignty and proclaim secession is worthy of celebration. And overdue for repetition.

What I dislike about the day is the way we’re expected to celebrate it. Fireworks are fine as far as they go. It’s just that they often go too far. And their crowds are usually too large. But a few Fourths stand out as wonderful exceptions.

One was that day on Whistler Mountain. Another was a few years earlier, in 1996, when we were again above it all, on the rooftop of our Telegraph Hill flat. It featured a hammock, a grill, a table for four, and an unimpeded view of fireworks over the Golden Gate.

Rita and I enjoyed many evenings there, watching the fog roll in till its chill forced us downstairs. But the privacy and the view made even the most committed curmudgeon welcome the Fourth. As crowds packed in raucous density on the Marina Green or Crissy Field, we’d serenely sip wine amongst ourselves, and watch the show.

The same night the next year, we were driving south along Highway 29 thru the Napa Valley. It was after dusk, and no one else was on the road…or at least that’s how I remember it. We’d had dinner, and were returning home to Petaluma.

To the east, over a silhouette of the Vaca Mountains, a string of fireworks suddenly accompanied us on our ride. It was as if their source was a mobile launchpad on the Silverado Trail, paralleling our route and mimicking our speed. For what seemed like half an hour, a receiving line of lights escorted us home. It was as if we had the Fourth catered for the ride, and all to ourselves. It was perfect.

In 2002, we spent the Fourth of July with Norman Rockwell. It was our first of many visits to South Haven, Michigan. A crowd gathered on either side of Phoenix Street as a parade flowed down the middle.

Small flags sprouted from corner flower pots and spectators’ hands. It was a warm day in southwest Michigan. Ice cream filled cones and flowed down arms. Children flitted about, marveling at the cheery spectacle. Many were in strollers.

My wife pushed one of them, which carried our one year-old son. While this was not a Fourth Alexander would remember, it is the first one he enjoyed, and one I’ll never forget.

By 2006, we had two sons, with whom we spent July 4 in Tampa. Another family joined us. Our friends Nick and Shelley Guerrero were there with their two kids the same week we were. My parents were out of town, but had lent us their house. Nick and Shelley were visiting his brother, but joined us on a couple occasions.

One was the evening of July 4. My Uncle George and Aunt Molly had a townhouse on Hillsborough Bay, overlooking the Bayshore and downtown Tampa. They had no interest being in there in the summer, so kindly offered us the key. We brought our wine and our friends, and imbibed a phenomenal display over the bay.

On the Fourth of July, as on any momentous occasion, myths conflate with reality. Even the date we’re supposed to remember was initially in question. Congress voted for independence two days before it was formally declared. John Adams always thought July 2 the more appropriate day to celebrate, and expected it would be the perpetual date to do so.

There was some merit to his argument, and more than a little envy that prompted it. As relations with Great Britain deteriorated and fighting continued to the north, separation became inevitable. Adams suggested to Thomas Jefferson that Jefferson write a declaration of independence.

At the time, Adams viewed the document as something of a press release, and certainly nothing epochal. After the tumult passed, either with new states on the world scene or signatories‘ necks in a hangman’s noose, few would remember it. The actual vote is what mattered.

Jefferson was reluctant, and wondered why Adams shouldn’t write it himself. Other than Robert Livingston, Jefferson was the youngest member of the committee of five assigned by the Second Continental Congress to draft a rationale for independence. How was he qualified?

But Jefferson brought unique ability…what Adams called “a reputation for literature, science, and a happy talent for composition”, as well as a “peculiar felicity of expression.” Adams then elaborated, with three additional reasons he preferred to defer to his younger colleague.

“Reason first”, he began, “you are a Virginian, and a Virginian should be at the head of this business.

“Reason second”, he continued, “I am obnoxious, suspected, and unpopular. You are very much otherwise.

“Reason third”, he concluded, “you can write ten times better than I can.”

Adams was right, and won that battle. But Jefferson won the war. From then on, the former always thought the latter had run away with the revolution. Adams continued to think July 2 was the date that truly mattered. 

Yet the Declaration ended up meaning more than Adams thought it would (or should), and the date atop the document became the one the rest of us would celebrate. That Adams and Jefferson both died on July 4…fifty years to the day after independence was declared…further cemented it, reinforced their reputations, and gave us a day to remember.

These days, with our passing sensitivities and perpetual animosities, I’m glad we still do.

JD