Back when I was 11 or 12, I lived the American Fourth of July dream in Illinois.
I rode my bike with the rest of my baseball team in the annual Fourth of July parade in the northern Chicago suburb where I lived. Although I had ridden in the parade before on the Jaycees float when my dad was president, this was the first time I got to be in the parade on my own.
Nearly four decades later, I can’t remember if I saw my mom and dad and brothers from the parade, but I probably did. What I do remember is people – lots of people – lining the parade route, block after block after block.
I was used to riding the couple miles into town to play in baseball games in the town park, so riding in the parade wasn’t difficult. But I don’t ever remember riding my bike that slowly for that long.
After the parade, all the baseball teams gathered in the city park for an afternoon of games. That day’s game has faded to dust in the memory bins in my mind, but if went like most games, I probably struck out at least once, twice if the opposing pitcher was really good, or I might have gotten a single or double if he wasn’t.
What I do recall is not remembering where in town my mom told me to meet her after the game.
I can remember riding that bike all over town looking for my family, for what seemed like h-o-u-r-s o-n e-n-d. I remember thinking I didn’t know Northbrook was that big.
I did eventually wander across them and joined the picnic in progress.
Those big Fourth of July picnics in town were just what you did back then.
I’ve missed those living here at Lake of the Ozarks.
There aren’t many Fourth of July events besides the fireworks sponsored by commercial enterprises for their guests.
I’ve spent a few Fourth evenings watching the displays from somewhere along a road or in a vacant lot and a couple on the pontoon with my in-laws, but it’s not the same as a town’s celebration.
To get that here, you have to get away from the lake.
During one of my first summers here, I was dispatched to photograph the holiday festivities out in Climax Springs, where townsfolk were gathered in the park.
I remember the mayor greeting me with the phrase: “You’re not the one they usually send.” That was back in the days when small newspapers had staff photographers.
“Nope,” I responded, “but I’m here. Where’s fun stuff?”
The park was on top of a ridge. The fun stopped when a storm rolled in and lightning struck a tree on the next ridge over. It was time to go, for me anyway.
If you long for what’s come to be termed “An old-fashioned Fourth of July,” head up to Eldon. But you’ll have to go July 3, ‘cuz that’s when the parade ‘n fireworks are … ah, progress.
