A Night of Remembrance

Last night, our family found itself doing something a bit different from the traditional pastimes most Americans engage in on the Fourth of July. We were driving home from our state’s capital, where we had been attending a conference focusing on home education.

As an introduction to one of the last sessions of the evening, the organizers had arranged for someone to read, for those assembled, the entire text of the Declaration of Independence.

While we make much of those lofty words in acknowledgement of the day, I doubt there have been many, of late, who have actually taken the time to read the document from beginning to end. And yet, on the very day—well, the purported day—honoring the framing of these words, we have so many unaware of the history that backs the celebration.

On the drive home—by now, beyond sunset, and moving into that “just right” time period designed to handsomely showcase such events—we were treated to spectacular bursts of light and color as community after community launched their fireworks displays (and not a few neighborhoods and individuals joined in the pyrotechnic chorus). By the time we exited the freeway, we were clamoring to see more, so we drove to a just-completed overpass near our home, where we pulled over on the shoulder, parked and enjoyed the three-sixty view.

The law had just changed in our county. People can now purchase fireworks for themselves, and believe me, they were taking full advantage of that freedom. All along the horizon, the multitude of bursts of light were witness to that change. The awe of the spectacular view of one well-funded and government-authorized production was now supplanted by lesser, though multiplied displays. Fireworks were exploding everywhere.

There is just something about this holiday—this “Independence Day” acknowledgement—that takes my mind back to that point in history when that Declaration was drawn up—and to what that document initiated.

I can’t help but think of my own family’s link to the dire circumstances of that era—of course, ruefully recalling the D.A.R. application I’ve long promised myself to complete—and how these many fireworks displays last night somehow link us with that other period in history.

While in my school days, I never was a fanatic of the study of history—and I doubt the majority of Americans are, even today. Yet, I can’t think of a holiday (or any day, for that matter) which serves more to recall to the public’s mind the historical roots we share as a nation.

The Fourth of July represents a day that reminds us collectively to turn to our roots, our history, to remember. It reminds us that there is value in remembering the details of what happened in bygone years.

I never thought a holiday could do that so much. I’ve always seen “The Fourth” as a day to get together with friends and family, to have a barbecue, to go see the sights of a spectacular fireworks display.

But history?

Who pays any mind to history any more?

And yet, there it was, all along: that tap on the shoulder that calls us to not only remember, but value that very remembrance, itself.

Holidays aren’t just for celebrating.

They are also about remembering.

And remembering is a call to return to our roots.



Note: If you are one of those readers who regularly check this blog first thing every day, my apologies for missing our morning appointment--and for any cause for alarm that absence might have triggered. If you had remembered my family's health crisis and my note that, should I not be here, you'd "know what happened," I want to emphatically--and gratefully--acknowledge that nothing of that sort was what kept me from posting in time for our morning visit. Rather, it was an hours-long difficulty my Internet provider was struggling with that prevented me from accessing the online resources I normally connect with early in the morning. For whatever reason, what was not available for several hours, beginning late last night through dawn here, is now back up and running. Thank you for your patience in the meantime!