It hardly seems possible that it's early July again already, but here we are. Here in the Susitna Valley, the spring wildflowers are giving way to the summer blooms. The daisies and the Queen Anne's Lace are blooming, and we're seeing the first hints of the pink blooms of the fireweed that grows everywhere, up and down the valley. The chickadees and juncos are bringing their offspring to the feeders; those babies, chubby and fluffy, are still following their parents around, clamoring to be fed even as they are perched on the suet feeder.
The birds, the flowers, the woods, the mountains, and the lakes, they don't care about our Independence Day, of course. But we do. Yes, we do.
This is a day with meaning for me in particular. On this 249th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, I remember that I have two ancestors who signed that document, pledging their lives and fortunes to the effort: Thomas McKean of Delaware and Abraham Clark of New Jersey. Thomas McKean, after signing, served as a colonel in the Continental Army, as well. My wife has one ancestor who likewise risked it all, Maryland's Charles Carroll.
That was 249 years ago. But today, I find my thoughts wandering back to a more recent holiday, that being Independence Day of 1991, 34 years ago. At that time, I was living in Colorado, but had just returned from the Middle East, where I had served as Headquarters Platoon Leader for a Colorado Army National Guard medical clearing company in Operation Desert Storm. When we returned home, I went off to see my parents. Mom was vastly relieved when my nephew dropped me off at the Allamakee County home where I'd grown up. "I knew you were all right," she told me, "But I couldn't really believe it until you were here." Mom had spent the last year of World War 2 on the Western Union switchboard, with part of her duties being to call farm families she had known all her life to tell them they had a telegram from the War Department. Those telegrams were never good news.
My taciturn father shook my hand, patted me on the shoulder, and said, "I'm proud of you." To this day, those words mean more to me than anything else he could have said.
We enjoyed our visit, with Mom stuffing me with everything she knew I liked to eat. In late June, with a job awaiting me, I went back to Colorado. Then, I found myself looking at a long Independence Day weekend. What to do? There was a girl in my thoughts who, like me, was off visiting her parents in Maryland. We had gotten to know each other during the deployment and found we hit it off rather well. (We've been married now for 33 years.) She was due to arrive back in Colorado a day or two before the long weekend.
What to do?
There was a parade in Denver, and several fireworks shows around the area. All the traditional Independence Day events. Colorado was still a purple state leaning red in those days, and the 4th of July was still a point of pride. But we decided to eschew all the fireworks and feasting. Instead, we loaded camping gear (much of it Army-issue) into my pickup and headed up into the mountains to spend the long weekend in peace. It proved to be the right decision for us at that time, in that place.
There's a majesty to the United States, to this country. Nowhere is that more apparent than in places like the Rocky Mountain West, the Great Plains, the lake-dotted north woods of Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan - and, of course, Alaska. There is a majesty that is built into us, that is an inextricable part of what makes us Americans. The great sweeps of land, this great, vast nation that began with 13 colonies huddled on the East Coast; a little of that can be found in all of us who call ourselves proudly American. I don't think you can find that majesty in the cities, but then, I've never been a city person. Your mileage may vary.
Since 1991, we've observed a lot of Independence Days in a lot of different ways. I even spent one in Japan, where my American colleagues and I marked the day by going out for a nice dinner after work, since, of course, it's not a holiday in Japan. I've seen some great fireworks shows, some great parades, and all manner of patriotic celebrations.
In 1991, it was enough for us to enjoy the mountains, the peace and quiet. We still like a quiet holiday. This year, we'll go to our little local community's parade, and then return home to our house in the woods, to the peace and quiet we still like more than anything. And, as we get along towards evening, I'll probably pour a dram of good whiskey in honor of those incredible, brave, brilliant men, who, 249 years ago today, made it all possible. And after the last few months, we have reason to be just a little optimistic that we may be able to keep this republic going, just a little longer.
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The Declaration that we honor today concludes:
And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.
Those men did just that; they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.
How, then, can we do anything less?
