For many of us, especially those of us who are older, this is our first fully “post-pandemic” Independence Day. Although the pandemic in the U.S. was declared officially over in May, 2023, last July many were still somewhat nervous about indoor gatherings or large crowds. This year I still didn’t venture out into large crowds, but not because of covid concerns. The prospect of driving through heavy traffic to crowded beaches or our area’s evening fireworks venues was unappealing. I spent a fairly quiet, but nonetheless enjoyable 4th, no longer isolated by a nasty virus and the worldwide fear it had engendered. Later, as I drifted off to sleep, I could hear the muffled hisses and booms of the closer fireworks displays.
Early in the morning, I’d gone to my small plot at our neighborhood community garden. Our most consistent volunteer was already there, watering some shrubs and flowering plants that were stressed from our recent heat wave. I wished her a Happy 4th. I quickly drew some water from the communal water barrel to help coax the bean seeds I’d recently planted into sprouting. As I was leaving the garden, I ran across a group of local men who volunteer at holidays to place American flags in the medians of our major streets. At 7 in the morning, they had just finished their work, and were headed to a local donut shop to have breakfast together.
Once home, I phoned my brothers, who both live on the East Coast, three time zones later than here. I wished each of them a Happy 4th. The brother who still lives in the neighborhood where we all grew up was getting ready to head to the potluck lunch that’s been a local tradition since long before we were born. He said attendance might be down some due to their latest heat wave—the historic community center, built in the 1870’s, has multiple fans but is not air conditioned. We reminisced about our childhood 4ths at “the hall”— the turtle race, the ample lunch with ice cream for the children, the parade featuring patriotic floats and decorated bicycles, the general fellowship and good feeling.
Later in the morning, before the sun got too high, I went for a walk with my husband through our suburban housing complex. Heading uphill to a favorite overlook, we met a stream of elementary-school-age children riding bicycles festooned with red, white, and blue streamers. They were accompanied by several adults, probably parents. All seemed headed toward festivities in our community park. Different neighborhood, different times, similar traditions. To some, it might seem a little contradictory to celebrate “independence” by having community gatherings, community gardens, community flag displays. Perhaps not.
I didn’t remember exactly what I’d done last Independence Day, so I checked a previous journal for July 4, 2023: my husband and son’s family were away; turns out I’d gone to a small outdoor barbecue at a next-door neighbor’s. More journals helped me recall prior 4ths during the pandemic:
At July 4, 2020, daily life was totally upended. In the neighborhood in North Carolina where we then lived, few were in a holiday mood. Infections, serious illness and deaths were climbing. There was not yet a vaccine or reliable treatment. Most of us were hunkered down, even disinfecting our postal mail before bringing it indoors. Libraries and other public venues were closed indefinitely. There was a dire shortage of protective gear of any kind. Social activities that still occurred were probably virtual. In-person activity had ground to a screeching halt.
In 2021, we had relocated to be close to a grown son and his family in southern California–the prospect during a pandemic of continuing to make long-distance plane trips to visit the grandchildren seemed foolhardy. In early spring we’d gotten our vaccinations, further downsized, and driven cross-country to our lives’ next stage. I spent July 4 trimming hedges at our son’s house while he and his family took a much-needed vacation.
On July 4, 2022, we were recovering from mild cases of covid. We’d most likely become infected while traveling by plane back and forth in June to visit a “bonus” grandchild born in Ohio in late May.
This July 4th, I relished my encounters with those celebrating where I live now. It was fun, too, to share long-ago memories with family and friends. I hope we never have to go back to the isolation of the worst of covid times. I hope that we never forget the medical researchers who helped develop vaccines and treatments, the health care workers who sometimes risked their own health to care for the rest of us, all the “essential workers” who kept us fed, clothed, and provisioned during the pandemic’s darkest days. I hope we avoid conflating independence with isolation.
On July 4th and on other days, let’s keep in mind the moving balance between our independence and our mutual dependence. A worthwhile paradox. Happy belated In(ter)dependence Day!
Jinny's Occasional Poems 