Every Fourth of July in my childhood was spent in Independence, Kansas. Fitting that Independence Day would take place in that town, the place where I was born and where my ancestors congregated through the years.

We would pack up the car to the brim, our family of four, and head west 730 miles to my parent’s hometown. Our grandparents from both sides lived a mile from one another and aunts, uncles and cousins rounded out the family gatherings. Built in playmates lived next door to one set of grandparents. The first week in July seemed to explode with people.

Each year, we filled our tummies with homemade pizza and trips to Sonic. Ice cream from Peter Pan and then in later years, Dairy Queen and Braums. Root beer in icy glass mugs from A and W served right to our car. Nightly trips to the park left us a tanned, mosquito-bitten, tired lot of kids tumbling out of my grandparent’s blue station wagon.

The biggest day, of course, was the actual 4^th. Everyone was off work and descended on my grandparent’s (on my mom’s side) home carrying homemade potato salad and watermelon and fireworks from the local stands. I didn’t like potato salad. Watermelon did nothing for me. But fireworks. Those were the dream.

Grandma planted herself in the kitchen mixing up the homemade ice cream. The aunts kept busy helping her or racing after kids. I bounced between the kitchen and the kids as I found myself exactly the same age difference between the two. I never really knew where I fit.

After all the preparation, we loaded up in cars and trucks and headed to Ralph Mitchell Park. Full of a zoo, train ride for a dime, carousel for a nickel and playground with heart stopping high slides, it was a child’s ultimate destination. The concrete picnic tables held all the food- more than we could ever hope to consume. After playing and eating and waiting, the darkness descended. The picnic had long ago been packed away as we gathered under the broad Kansas sky to watch the city’s fireworks show. The finale always came way too soon.

Back to the grandparent’s home we would drive full of more expectation. We’d light our punks on Grandma’s white gas stove and oh-so-carefully carry them through the house to light the multitude of fireworks at our disposal. Inevitably, Mom would get nervous as the fireworks activity grew in rowdiness and overall carelessness. Convinced someone was going to blow their hand off or some such thing, she’d beckon my sister and I up to the front porch where we would have a fighting chance of ducking when a fountain went awry or a roman candle misfired sending balls of fire our way. I sulked over the unfairness- after all my younger cousins were free to run about in the chaos- yet, I was secretly grateful to be in the safe zone. Fear was not a stranger in my life.

Finally, the fireworks would be depleted. The uncles made sure everything was out- no fire hazards left to start a grass fire in the night. We waved good-bye to the cousins who left and made plans with those who stayed. Opening the front door, the frigid air conditioning assaulted our faces after a long night in the humid, hot Kansas air. Washing up and climbing under the covers led to a deep sleep as we dreamed of leftover Texas sheet cake and ice cream, grilled burgers and bottles of Nehi soda pop.

In the midst of those gatherings, there was always some type of conflict. Chaos. Overwhelming activity. Clashes of values. Prissy city girls (that would be me and my sis) trying to figure out their country strong cousins- as in who knew that boys could pee standing up outside in the wild? Grandma would get overwhelmed with the people and the work and the screaming kids and reach for Grandpa’s valium, only taking ½ a tablet of course But there was a tie that bound us together. A tie that kept calling us back 730 miles year after year. A tie that made the spats and the jealousies and the hurt feelings disappear. A tie that means we will check on one another from time to time on Facebook even though it’s been decades since we’ve all been together. A tie invisible yet ever present.

Sometimes I wish I could gather those Fourth of Julys to me- the feeling of belonging and love and laughter and family-and hold them all close to my heart. To make time stand still just for a moment, being a kid once again with freedom flowing through my veins. Freedom to not worry about anything more important than dodging a misplaced firework. Freedom to dream of the future as the night sky erupts into a million dots of brilliant colored light. Freedom to soak in all the gritty, dirty, sticky mess and chaotic love of family.