Part of growing up is departing from childhood tradition and creating tradition from scratch.
I measure the passage of time by the festivals, the holidays, the big milestones. Most of my traditions are inherited, passed down through some semblance of a culture, the amalgamation of generations of families coming together or drifting apart, sharing and cherishing what they remember fondly, neglecting and slowly forgetting what no longer works.
We used to gather by the water as the sun went down, watching creative displays of loud, colorful, and sometimes illegal pyrotechnics. I have fond memories. I miss being with family for a celebration.
One memory is so old that I’m not sure if it’s real – I’m barely old enough to be able to walk, and my parents and I are laying on a blanket in a field, close enough to see the magic, far enough away that it’s not too loud. “Look, it’s the grand finale,” they tell me, with great reverence, watching a fantastic explosion of light and sound at the end of the show.
In another memory, we are in a boat at the edge of the black water of the lake, in pitch darkness. The fireworks are exploding directly above us in the sky. I am crying because the explosions are too loud.
Another memory. There is a campfire in the stony pebbles at the edge of the lake at the cottage. We watch from the end of the dock as each house lights a fire or a flare at the edge of the water, so that the lake is wreathed in a ring of fire.
We walk out to the end of the driveway in the twilight. Our house stands at the top of a hill. We look around in a big circle, and for miles in every direction, as far as the eye can see, there is a sharp noise and bright color and there is smoke and ashes on the wind.
These days, I feel like my family tends to ends up scattered to the winds like the ashes after the finale is done. I often end up being alone.
I tend to stay in, make pizza, watch a movie, and shoot irritated glances at the windows, mumbling “fucking nationalism” under my breath as I cuddle the dog who is violently shaking because of the sound of the fireworks. Sometimes, after the noise dies down, I’ll step outside for a bit and look up at the stars.
I feel an odd mix of bittersweet nostalgia and tired resentment towards this celebration of the birth of a country which gets so many things wrong all the time.
I love that I have my own tiny tradition.