Back Home by Chris Hardie
Fifty years ago a new word entered my vocabulary as our nation celebrated our Bicentennial, the 200th anniversary of the adoption of the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776.
I was 12 years old entering the seventh grade at Melrose School, where our class would finally join the eighth-graders in the junior high wing. We had just spent a year tucked away in a room in the old high school building that’s long since been torn down. In those days the elementary students in grades K-5 occupied their own wing and the junior high students had their own wing.
Sixth-graders were sort of on their own, which perhaps was fitting as our small class was heading into the awkward teens. After eighth grade, students from both Melrose and Mindoro joined at the high school built between the two communities in the mid-1960s. Today all of the district’s schools are at that campus.
My family decided to celebrate the Bicentennial in Melrose, which had a full day of activities capped off by a night of fireworks. Dad must have decided that haying could be postponed for the day, which was bright with temperatures in the low 80s — perfect weather for a summer celebration.
In my pocket was a small tin that contained some holiday contraband – a few firecrackers. I hoped that I could score a few M-80s, which were at least 60 times more powerful. But these were hard to come by, especially since they were banned starting in 1966 and there weren’t fireworks stands on every corner. I also had a few smoke bombs, which were not illegal.
I don’t remember if my older brother Kevin – who would have been just a few weeks shy of 16 at the time – was with us that day, but he may have been doing something with his friends. Regardless, I quickly separated from my parents when I spotted some of my friends.
Those firecrackers were burning a hole in my pocket, so a few of us headed toward the former mill pond, which was just a block off the main drag. We lit the firecrackers and were unsuccessful in trying to dislodge a portion of a rotten stump.
One of the older boys in our group said he had a bottle of beer stashed away behind a shed. Having already broken one law that afternoon with the fireworks, I had no hesitation sharing a warm bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon with him. After all, I was entering junior high and had to maintain a reputation of being cool.
The only other thing I remember about that day was the fireworks display at dusk behind the school and being yelled at by some guy who didn’t like where I had lit a smoke bomb, despite my protestations that they were completely legal.
Now we are observing the Semiquincentennial – some call it the Sestercentennial – as we celebrate our 250th anniversary. If you would have asked my 12-year-old version, I would have probably guessed that I would be dead by now or really, really, really old and fireworks would have been replaced by some Star Trek-inspired space phaser thingee that would be far cooler than a few sparklers and bottle rockets.
Today’s older version has outgrown his fascination for fireworks but still thinks a phaser thingee would be awesome. I also prefer my beer darker and colder.
While there are many Independence Day celebrations this year, I prefer my Fourth of July events on the quiet side. This holiday has been a bit subdued for me since my father passed away on July 4, 2020. It’s also on July 4, 1826, that former presidents Thomas Jefferson and John Adams died within five hours of each other.
I’ll toast my father and the founding fathers for their dedication to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
We mustn’t take those attributes for granted.
Chris Hardie spent more than 30 years as a reporter, editor
