I grew up in suburbia, on the west side of Portland, Ore. My memories of July 4ths revolve around gatherings at our house with cousins and neighbors with the usual hotdogs, watermelon, strawberry shortcake and lemonade on the menu and the anticipation of sparklers and fireworks after dark. Our house perched on a small hill overlooking a cul-de-sac and boasted a commanding view of the fireworks shot off from Alpenrose Dairy a few miles away. Most of the neighbors who weren’t celebrating the holiday elsewhere ended up on our back lawn for the show. The grassy slope offered the perfect angle for stretching out and gazing up at the bursts of color exploding above the treetops. I enjoy those memories, but it wasn’t until I was an adult with a little girl of my own that I enjoyed the full experience of a true, small-town, old-fashioned Fourth of July. My husband’s first high school principalship took us to Twin Falls, Idaho, in 1985. We were over 600 miles from our families, but by the beginning of our second summer there, we’d made friends with other young families like us, and with Sarah a precocious two-year-old, we planned to take in as much of the local flavor on the big holiday as we could. An hour before the local parade was to start, we had our spot staked out along one side of the central town park that offered necessary shade on a hot, sunny day. The parade begin with the whooping sirens and flashing lights of local law enforcement vehicles, and then as the color guard came into sight, we were nearly blown off our feet as a tight formation of fighter jets from Mountain Home Air Force Base thrilled us with a low fly-by. THAT is the right way to start a Fourth of July parade! Now we both, born and raised in Portland, had witnessed that city’s famous Grand Floral Parade during the Rose Festival, so we thought we knew what to expect. Reality check: here in the land of famous potatoes, sugar beets and more bean varieties than I imagined existed, floats decorated with flowers were nowhere in sight. Instead, it seemed that every form of plowing, planting, fertilizing and harvesting equipment trundled down the street, and every farm within a fifty-mile radius seemed to have at least one entry. Of course, all the local schools were represented with a band, cheerleaders and drill team, but you can be sure that every grange, farmers co-op and equipment dealer took part, too. And here was another aspect of parade-going new to us: nearly every vehicle in the parade (even some of the poop scoopers) had at least one passenger who was tossing candy out to the kids perched on the curbsides. We cringed as tiny tykes darted towards the enormous tires of huge, unwieldy machines to grab the goodies, but everyone around us seemed singularly unconcerned. Luckily, Sarah was perfectly content with the pieces that bounced right to her feet, and we were spared having to restrain her from the rolling death seemingly mere inches away. At last the final tractor had rolled past and we retired to our friends’ backyard for a traditional barbecue. The kids cooled off in the sprinkler and later collapsed for a nap on towels spread in the shade. As the sun dropped down in the sky, we loaded up blankets, coolers and lawn chairs and headed to the town of Buhl, about 12 miles west of Twin Falls. Although I’m sure a good portion of that part of the county’s population was in attendance, we had no problem finding plenty of room for our large group to arrange ourselves on the grass at the park. I found myself as eager as the kids for the fireworks to start, but the western sky seemed to glow with the vanished sun far later than it usually seemed to. At last we heard the whistle and screech of a launched rocket and moments later were rewarded with a loud boom and an enormous wheel of light and color right above us. Everyone, young and old alike, cheered, applauded, oohed and aahed with each new explosion. Out there, as we sat in the midst of acres and acres of dark farmland, the stars seemed to drop right down and mingle with the multicolored sparks of the fireworks. Watching my little girl nestled in her daddy’s arms and seeing her eyes light up in wonder with each new flash gave me one of those perfect moments of complete happiness that present themselves to you when you aren’t looking. What a gift at the end of a wonderful, old-fashioned, perfect day.  –Patty Vanikiotis, proofreader