I grew up in the rural South. In a land covered with tobacco plants, farmhouses, and American flags.
In a park across the road from where we lived, businesses and community organizations would provide a firework display on the 4th of July. It was a big show, with massive fireworks that kissed the sky then opened up like colorful umbrellas before falling down like rain.
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The display was timed with music that played on an AM or FM channel (I can’t remember which). Whatever the channel, it was made known to everyone in the town beforehand so that car stereos and portable radios could be tuned in.
On the evening of the 4th, the family would all gather. My mom and dad, my brother and sister, my aunts, uncles, and cousins, all in my front yard, watching the fireworks explode and anticipating the finale, which was always Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.”
The fireworks were set up so that they reached a crescendo as the song did. And I can vividly remember how my heart pounded when Greenwood’s voice coincided with the explosions. I would put my hand over my heart as he sang, and I always mouthed the words “where at least I know I’m free” along with him.
I was only 10 or 11 years old at the time, but I was so proud to be an American.
My heart still pounds when I hear Greenwood’s song, and I’m still thankful to be free.
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