What time has taught me about Independence, sacrifice and freedom

When I was a little girl, I watched in wonder the annual Fourth of July parade as it slowly moved past the homes that lined Broad Street where I lived. It was not like the parades we see today. There were no multiple bands, no cheerleaders, no fancy cars, and no queens with their courts.

As I recall, the parades of my youth were short, but always included the high school marching band with its baton-twirling majorettes, a fire truck or two sounding their ear-splitting sirens, and, for some reason, a few horses followed by a man with a shovel and large bucket.

Though I didn’t understand their true significance at the time, there was always a small group of the Veterans of Foreign Wars who served and survived World War I or World War II. They walked proudly in their uniforms and were always followed by the auxiliary group of women who had supported them during those years and long after. They carried banners and flags, and when they passed, everything grew somehow quieter while those who did understand were remembering that this parade was really about honoring the memory of those who had given their full measure and were not there.

Once over, families with children headed for the park on Lake Erie with their picnic baskets filled with chicken, potato salad, baked beans, lemonade, watermelon, and summer pies. The afternoon was filled with the opportunity to visit with friends, swim in the lake, check out the tiny critters in the nearby creek, and eat more than anyone needed. As darkness fell, children with little jars could try to capture some of the many lightning bugs that lit up the lakefront park and then, with supervision, light up their sparklers.

I have for many, many years been able to share joyous Independence Day celebrations. Their memories echo down the years: enjoying the parades — much larger now — eating the same kinds of foods, sharing everything with families and friends, reveling in the joy and surprise of little ones seeing those awesome explosions of color in the sky, understanding finally what I hadn’t understood as that little girl who watched veterans quietly go by.

Of late, however, age has slowed me. But earlier this month, as daylight slipped into dusk and then darkness not too far from our home, we were able to join friends who had created with their neighbors and others of our friends, old and new, a special celebration, complete with great food, companionship, and fireworks.

As the night darkened, we were treated first to the amazing sight of lanterns gracefully drifting high into an early starry sky. Quickly following was an awesome display of fireworks. They exploded in such color and sound that we were mesmerized like never before. When they ended, people began to say their good-byes and gather their things.

Then suddenly, across Bloomington, Indiana fields, a voice we hadn’t expected cut through the smoke-filled night air. “Oh, Say can you see,” the strong tenor began to sing. We stopped saying our good-byes and gathering our things. We stood and listened while some, then all, with voices occasionally catching, softly joined in singing that song, sacred to so many of us. For a long moment, we were filled with an old joy, a sense of pride, a sense of hope. And despite our individual differences, our problems, our wounds, we did see again what our country had set out to be, what it could still be: a land of the free and a home of the brave.

Marion Golarz, wife and copyeditor for regular H-T columnist Ray Golarz, is a resident of Bloomington.

This article originally appeared on The Herald-Times: Columnist reflects on Fourth of July long ago and in recent past