Getting down to it, there are a handful of compelling factors. Family military history (which naturally lends to draping yourself in Old Glory and belting out The Star Spangled Banner) the perks of being a cop's kid in a relatively small town (premium seating for fireworks), youth in and of itself but largely and for the most part- my hometown. Southampton.
All right, so we don't get all Colonial glitzy like Doylestown but by God, we've got spirit. There is just something about the giddiness on July 3rd, waiting to wake up in the splendor of hot morning sunshine and head to the Southampton Days Parade. You grab yourself some McDonald's on 2nd Street Pike because that is THE 4th of July breakfast of champions and then await the merriment. As little kids, we'd plop ourselves down in the grass right in front of McDonald's, not bothering to go very far after our "Big Breakfast" meals. As I grew older, my participation in the parade itself began to evolve. Marching with the Girl Scouts, riding my bike bedecked in patriotic ribbons, riding my go-cart and then the pinnacle, championing the route in dad's 1943 armored half track. There is just something about standing at a quad 50 caliber machine gun mount, a giant American flag waving in the rush before you as an antique military vehicle roars down the road. It. Is. Liberty. There were years of piling 6 or 7 friends on the back and dressing up in various themes. In years we didn't utilized the half track, I settled for the 1946 Willy's jeep which dad painstakingly restored (individually sandblasting and painting every nut and bolt) to replicate my grandfather's jeep from WWII. Dad, being a retired police officer knew scores of people along the parade route, would turn when someone shouted out, "Yo, Lt.!", take ribbing from former badge bearing colleagues and shout out witty zingers to civilians. I'd wave like some Goddamn regal mayor to friends, acquaintances and strangers alike. We were both in our glory. And today, it would appear the sour kraut didn't fall very far from the table because my toddler conducted herself in the exact same manner.
Being a Southampton native you have, at one point in your life or another, a fondness for the fair. You go with a pack of unruly friends, ride the rides, get that super sugary lemonade, yell out, "Bingo, Bingo, Bingo!" and probably try your best to win some prize or another be it an inflatable AK47, a fuzzy bear or that hook-up you've been pining for. Once again, I look back on an evolution of sorts. I started out hocking baked goods with the Girl Scouts until bored of this, I wandered over to the Boy Scout's dunk booth and asked to be put in. I was 8 years old. Thinking it adorable and not wanting to disappoint a fellow scout, they obliged. Year after year I came back until finally I was a stacked teenager with a surly sailor mouth who could trash talk a grown man into making an infuriating dash for the dunk tank to give me the throttling I probably deserved. Those were the days.
Fireworks, BBQ, family, friends, beer, laughter, shenanigans, off roading adventures where you pray to the Lord above you don't flip over and break your neck. Blasting "Proud To Be An American" (God Bless The U.S.A) as loud as possible and not bothering to conceal the fact that you're tearing up. But more than all those cherished things, it's the spirit of the men who took a stand and generations thereafter of those who fought and died to preserve our hard fought liberty. Even with all the hoopla of being in the parade, my favorite part of it is seeing an old veteran seated along the side of the pike, waving to him and shouting out a, "Thank you, sir!" and today, I felt a swell of maternal pride when my two year old echoed my actions from the back of the jeep.
Yup. This is my holiday. This is our holiday. God Bless America and Happy 4th of July!
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