Once again, I wax nostalgic on the 4th of July.

My home town always did a great job with the 4th, from the parade to the fireworks, the community gathered for celebration in that way that feels so unique to small towns.

When I was a kid the 4th was the best day of the entire summer. My first task of the day was to find the footing for the flag. I’m calling it a footing, I have no idea what the proper name is. I’d crawl around in the front yard, trying to find that spot that lined up sort of in the middle of the windows, slightly to the left, or was it to the right?

If I couldn’t find the metal cover hiding beneath the often lush grass, my father would amble out of the house and take care of that step. Beneath the cover was a metal fitting like a pipe to hold the flagpole.

Next, one of us would bring the flag up from the basement. This was a job for someone who was tall enough to carry the flagpole without the flag touching the ground. The wood pole was in two pieces, the flag wrapped around the top piece.

After the parade downtown, people headed to Kronsage Park for games, food, and other events throughout the day, leading up to the spectacular fireworks display that night.

As much as we anticipated the 4th, the day after always indicated the beginning of the end summer, the promise of school lurking ever nearer.