I’ve lived in the same house, the same neighborhood, and the same town for my entire life; this is both a blessing and a curse. I’ve never had to move, never had to leave anyone behind, never had to completely start over. I’ve also never been able to reinvent myself, never learned how to enter a room and know absolutely no one, and can only attempt to empathize with those who have. However, the one town - the one neighborhood, the one house that I grew up with - were pretty special, and for that I am very thankful.

This special neighborhood was (still is) special, mainly because of its residents’ extreme desire to foster a close-knit community. We have a neighborhood-wide yard sale day in the spring; kids rally at the neighborhood pool during the summer and sled at the same sledding hill during the winter. The community center throws its annual 4^th of July festivities and Christmas celebrations, complete with Santa Claus. We know every child that walks by our house on the first day of school and every trick-or-treater that rings out doorbell on Halloween.

Sometimes when I explain to people such traditions from my childhood, I find my stories surprisingly unique. I used to take all of these festivities for granted, thinking that every kid lived in an organized community with parades and parties and celebrations, not realizing how special each was. Now, with nineteen years of life under my belt, I am coming to appreciate the full extent to which neighborhood residents went to create that community, and as 4^th of July approaches, I can’t help but think that the neighborhood’s best traditions come on this patriotic holiday.

The July 4th celebrations of my childhood began with a highly-anticipated parade. This parade started at a cul-de-sac in one end of my neighborhood and ran about four blocks before ending at our community center, which is surrounded by a small pool, field, and man-made lake. Neighborhood kids piled into that cul-de-sac, decked out in their best red, white and blue; the youngest in strollers and wagons, the older ones on Razor scooters or bikes, some in gold carts or motorcycles, all smothered in sunscreen and clad with helmets. I’d spend all morning preparing for the parade, decorating my bike by taping mini American flags to the handlebars, weaving ribbons through the wheels, and fixing a big red bow on the very front. A fire truck from the town’s volunteer fire department always made an appearance at the parade, and some kids would ultimately abandon their two-wheeled vehicles in favor of riding in the truck. The parade began with the sound of a foghorn, and we’d race to the finish at the community center while the fire truck’s siren rang in the background.

Once we reached the community center, we’d abandon our bikes on the parking lot asphalt and race down a gravel path to the field. We’d gulp icy cold water from coolers that experienced parents had the foresight to set up, and took solace in the shade alongside the lake until the slow-pokes in the parade arrived. Before we knew it, it was time for field games: three-legged races, potato sac races, egg tosses, water balloon tosses. We competed for Ringpops and bragging rights, eventually tiring out under the hot July sun, at which point we’d retrace our steps up the gravel path, back to the pool to find relief in the cool water.

4^th of July was undoubtedly the best pool day of the whole year. First of all, it was crowded beyond capacity, which was amazing for Kid Me because it meant all my friends were there. Second, the lifeguards blasted a patriotic playlist the whole day long, creating the perfect atmosphere for relaxed poolside celebration. We had organized pool games, too: diving for coins and belly flop contests, among others. All the activity made the pool unbelievably fun, and the masses of friends made the day extra special.

By late afternoon, when our fingers and toes became wrinkled from the pool water and faces and shoulders were badly sunburned, we’d retreat to our strollers/wagons/scooters/bikes/golf carts/motorcycles to return home for dinner. 4^th of July dinnertime meant cookout time, and my whole family would eventually make our way to the backyard for hot dogs, hamburgers, corn on the cob and, my personal favorite, watermelon.

Of course, the part you’ve been waiting for, the biggest tradition of all 4^th of July traditions: fireworks. At nightfall, we’d return to the community center where the festivities had taken place earlier in the day, but this time we’d spread out on a hill overlooking the lake. Someone would pass out sparklers and glow sticks to the little kids, and we’d run around the tall grass, burning our sparklers in the summertime darkness until the fireworks began.

I’ll admit, these fireworks weren’t the best. The show was put on by neighborhood parents who only had the capabilities to set off approximately two fireworks every ten minutes, and the finale consisted of maybe four or five fireworks in a row. But it didn’t matter because everyone was together, our bodies exhausted from the long day of activities, our bellies full from the July 4^th cookouts, and besides, we’d had enough activity for one day that it didn’t need to end in hundreds of glittery explosions in the sky to be a special day to us.

After the show, we’d return to our beds happy and exhausted, ready for a good night’s sleep and already anticipating the next year’s July 4^th celebration. If I had to live in one house, in one neighborhood, in one town for all my childhood, I’m eternally glad that it was the one in which I did.