Remember when you were a kid and every year on Thanksgiving your family would …

And on every July 4th you would …

Can you fill in the blanks?

I’m sure if you can’t for those holidays, there are others where you had a standing family tradition. You looked forward to it, and the holiday was not complete without it. Then you went through a stage in your teens where you rolled your eyes at this tradition.

As you look back on your childhood, it’s those traditions you remember. It’s those traditions that make you smile and form the picture in your mind when the holiday comes up. It’s those traditions you talk about with anyone who will listen.

There’s no secret formula to forming those traditions – at least none I’m aware of. Sure, repetition seems like a needed ingredient. Sprinkle in some loved ones and fun. And well, I think you have a tradition.

I believe our Thanksgiving tradition will remain memorable for my children. My wife has made dinner for her family ever since her father’s last Thanksgiving, and he passed away nearly 30 years ago. It’s the one holiday that we know where we’ll be and who we will be spending it with.

The family has another Thanksgiving tradition: naming the turkey. That’s right: while eating the bird, everyone is given a slip of paper and a pen. They write a name on the paper, fold it up, and drop it into a hat (when someone has not been able to make Thanksgiving dinner, they’ve texted). The names are read aloud, and a winner is selected based on crowd reaction. Last year’s winner was Num Num, named by our great niece (those were her only words at the time).

My wife spends Thanksgiving morning cooking and watching March of the Wooden Soldiers, and the boys and I go to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. This will be my oldest son’s seventh year of attendance and his brother’s third. We’ll point out our favorite floats, complain about the cold, and wish we were taller to get a better view.

But they love being in New York City.

They love taking the bus and train.

They love the snacks.

One day, my boys will be getting ready for Thanksgiving. Maybe they’ll be getting together for the holiday, like their mom and her sister. Maybe they’ll just be calling each other sometime during the day and sharing memories of naming the turkey, or trip to New York City. Either way, I’m happy and proud that we gave them this Thanksgiving tradition.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. Photo: mgstanton via Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND

Baseball begins this weekend for my son and me, his coach. This is his last year in the league, and he made his goals clear.

Me: What are you thinking about for the upcoming season?

Son: We have to win a championship.

Me: Well, every team wants to win, and only one will. I mean I want to and everything, but to say we have to…

Son: No. If we don’t win, it’s a fail. It’s our final year, and we haven’t won yet. So, it has to be this year.

So baseball wasn’t about the time we spent together. It wasn’t about him getting better as a player. It wasn’t about him getting exercise. It wasn’t about him getting to be part of a team.

I’ll be honest. The answer stung a little bit. My son is obsessed with winning, and nothing else matters. What kind of child are my wife and I raising?

But then I thought about it.

Was I that competitive?

Ummm, well, yeah. I am or at least I was that competitive. (Maybe I still am in some ways but that’s another story.) When I was in Little League, all I wanted was to play and win the championship.

When I was playing ball, I was on one championship team. I was 10 years old, and I didn’t get to play much that year. The coach played his son and his son’s friends more than the rest of us.

I played outfield primarily, and the ball only got out there a few times a game. Once during practice, I had a rock catch with a friend of mine, a fellow outfielder. No one noticed.

Despite my relative inactivity, I still have a few memories of that team. We were the Giants, and we wore purple jerseys. The friend I had a catch with was named Mike. We rarely talked after the season ended.

When I was 12, my basketball team made it to the finals. We started the year poorly – losing our first few games. Then, there was a long strike involving the schools, and the league was halted.

When the league started up again after the strike, only seven of our 11 players returned. Those of us who returned got to play a lot. And we started winning and laughing.

I could give you a breakdown of the championship game – go all Charles Barkley, Kenny Smith and TNT on you – but I’ll spare you the details.

While I can’t remember the name of the team or the color of our shirts (I might have a picture somewhere), the memory of that team and how we bonded still makes me smile.

Sure, I want my son and his teammates to be competitive and experience a championship. Having such an experience is special. So, along with my fellow coaches, we’ll try to put the players in the best position to succeed.

However, it will be the same balancing act as past years, one between winning and helping the boys improve their skills.  When the only focus is winning, something is lost.

I hope my son can appreciate that as much fun as winning is, coming together as a team is even more special.

Maybe, this kind of thinking only happens with time, perspective and maturity. Either way, I hope my son and the rest of the team enjoy the season and, one day, will look back upon it fondly.

+ + +

This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. It first ran here in 2017 and has since been updated. “Competitive children” photo by Eduardo Balderas on Unsplash.

Wisdom can be found wherever you are willing to let it in.

Sounds like a fortune cookie, doesn’t it?

Anyway, I think I made it up – feel free to quote me or tweet it. Even if I didn’t make it up, it’s something I believe very much. Another time when this credo was proven correct recently when I learned the secret is nothing.

One of my sons recently wanted to see the first Kung Fu Panda movie again, so we took the movie out of the library. He even asked me to join him since I had never seen the movie. Bonding time – why not?

Here’s a summary for the uninitiated. For those who know the movie, skip to the next paragraph.

A panda, Po, is chosen to be the Dragon Warrior, the ultimate kung fu warrior. The choice was surprising because up to that point, Po had been working in his father’s noodle restaurant. On top of that, he was big, clumsy, and clueless in the ways of kung fu. Those who had been trained and were excellent at kung fu were disappointed at not being chosen and doubtful that Po was the chosen one. There’s a desperate need for the Dragon Warrior because an evil warrior has escaped prison and is headed toward the town looking to take revenge. Ultimately, Po trains and proves his mettle by defeating the evil warrior and saving the town.

The movie was pleasant enough and had some nice typical child-friendly themes and moments. There is the underdog from humble beginnings who overcomes and ultimately becomes the hero. Before he takes his place as a hero, a problem arises that must be overcome.

Po has earned the title of Dragon Warrior and was given the ancient scroll which he was supposed to understand due to his position. However, the scroll is empty, blank. There was no wisdom to impart. The only thing Po saw was his own reflection. Maybe the whole idea of a warrior was a hoax as well.

Po, dejected, turns back and goes to his father. Sensing his son’s mood, Po’s father tells him the secret to his noodles: “The secret is … nothing.” He explains that something becomes special if people truly believe that it is.

From there, Po is revived. He recognizes the message of the scroll about believing in himself, and he becomes the hero that he was destined to be.

Could that be true of everything? Something or someone becomes special only if a person truly believes that it is. The secret is nothing. There is no secret.

We spend our lives looking, chasing, and seeking. For what? For understanding, for knowledge, for joy.

I take so much for granted including the health of my family and myself. Yet, is there anything more precious than that? If I recognized how special each blessing was, how rich, how content, how happy would I be?

The idea of believing in yourself and appreciating your blessings is not a new one. I suspect every faith and belief system includes some sort of call to believe.

However, despite the simplicity, it’s hard to do. I suspect we’d be more successful if we kept in mind that the secret is nothing.

I have a lot to learn. I might need to watch the other Kung Fu Panda movies. I need more knowledge and wisdom.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. Photo: © fran_kie / Adobe Stock.

The alarm went off this morning just after six. And my daily routine began: breakfast, drive the kids to camp, work, pick up kids, work, dinner, hang with kids, and work.

Oh, how could I forget – ensure kids have done their summer work for school.

Yup, that’s pretty much my daily routine.

Do you know what that reminds me of? The rest of the year!

Summers past were different. I remember when the season could not come fast enough and it could not stay for long enough. Sure, it changed over the years but all had an element of magic.

My boyhood summers were full of languid days of stickball, baseball cards and fireflies. Summer was simple.

Eventually, part-time jobs – busboy, cashier, stock boy – were part of my summer. But so were swimming pools and late nights hanging out at friends’ houses. Summer was energy.

Then college ended and I traveled during those next summers, going to the Middle East and Europe multiple times and there was time spent time out West. Summer was exploration.

Graduate school years brought more summers of part-time jobs and exploring New York City. Summer was wonder.

Then came the publishing industry and the marketing departments of architectural and engineering firms. July and August nights were for friends, dates and destinations. Summer was socialization.

Finally, there were over 10 years as a teacher, and summer meant a part-time job for extra money (if there is such a thing for the middle class). Summer was recuperation.

I’m sure some of those things filled your summers. Sadly, I’m back to the present.

I killed summer. It’s mundane. It’s the workday grind. It’s the concern about bills. It’s the lack of time.

Is summer done? Are July and August just like February and March save for sweat and brown grass? Turn off the heater, and turn on the air conditioner.

Well, my family and I will go on vacation (budget permitting), the kids are in camp, and bedtime is more flexible. And summer work is not the same as homework. So, there is some easing of the grind.

But …

I do miss the ease of my past summers. I miss the feeling that summer was one long day at the park. Possibilities existed, and if they arose, there was time to explore.

I know, I know. It’s responsibility and adulthood. Most people are in jobs that see little difference in terms of workload during the summer. For me, however, this is a new phenomenon. I’m in my adjustment period. Don’t worry though – I’ll be fine.

It’s just I killed summer, and I miss it.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. Photo: ©Zoran Zeremski / Adobe Stock.

Dye your hair, rid yourself of wrinkles, enhance your energy etc. Everywhere you turn, you see some sort of advertisement whose stated goal is to make you look or feel younger.

We live in a culture where there is a drive to be young. While I wish I had a full head of hair, when I wonder what it would be like to be younger again, it has nothing to do with the physical.

This morning, my oldest son, BR, came downstairs. He looked at my wife and I who were sitting and talking on the couch discussing our daily plans like football coaches game planning for the upcoming foe. He had a smirk on his face even as he was wiping the tired out of his eyes

“It’s tomorrow, today,” he said.

He said it a second time, and that seemed to be his whole message. He was excited for the trip we have planned to a water park later in the week. Youthful enthusiasm.

SJ, his younger brother, will be celebrating his 5^th birthday in November. It’ll be his first birthday party at which we will include his friends. He’s talking about this party incessantly and invites and uninvites on a regular basis.

According to SJ, the birthday is tonight, and it should have been every night of the last two weeks. This morning I showed him a calendar. We sang the months of the year song that he learned in school. I then showed him that there are many days until his birthday.

He nodded his head indicating that he understood. Skip a beat. A moment later, he informed us that his birthday party was tonight. Palm slap right to my head. This kid ain’t gettin’ it.

But then I realized why he is not getting it – it’s about youthful enthusiasm. It’s tomorrow, today.

Both boys are experiencing pure and utter joy – like only the young can. Beautiful, just beautiful!

So, while I really would love that full head of hair, I want what my children have. We adults no longer experience the pure and utter joy of youthful enthusiasm.

I hope my boys can retain that joy of youthful enthusiasm for as long as possible, and I’ll be content to live vicariously through them.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. Photo: © anekoho / Adobe Stock.

It was sunny that day, and then it wasn’t.

In the middle of a business call, I had to excuse myself. I ran out to the car and put up the windows and closed the sunroof. The rain was coming down.

By the time I finished my multiple apologies for having run out, the rain was fierce.

A little while later, after I hung up the phone, I grabbed my youngest son, SJ, and we stared out the windows. It had started hailing outside. I’ve heard the term, “it looks like golf balls are coming out of the sky,” but had never actually seen it. We watched in fascination as Leila, our dog, hid under the bed, scared of the noise the hail made as it hit the house.

My wife texted our oldest son’s camp. Should we come get BR? He had been attending a day camp where they play baseball all day. Outdoors.

The response came back quickly. Things were fine where they were. They had yet to see any rain.

What? My wife and I were in shock. The rain had been coming down where we were – just five or so miles away – for a while.

When we picked BR from camp later that day, he said, “No, we didn’t have any rain. Except for the rain that just started falling now.”

Somewhere near, the rain line existed. The rain ended somewhere. There was rain and there was no rain.

“My teacher told us a story,” my son, BR, recalled as we pulled up to the house. “It was raining in her front yard but not in her back yard.”

“Cool,” I said from the front seat. “Well, the rain has to end somewhere, right? It’s just we don’t get to see the rain line very often. When we’re in the middle of it, we rarely see the end. But somewhere is an end.”

He agreed.

+  +  +

I dropped little SJ off at his camp some days later. As we turned the corner, he said, “You can go now. Love you. Bye.”

It’s not the first time he’s blown me off. I get it. “See you. Love you too,” I called out as he ran off.

Then the next day, when I picked him up, we got into an animated conversation about his camp. He was excited about what he was building.

And he reached for my hand to hold it.

So I grabbed on.

Don’t know when the end will come: just that it will sometime.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. Photo: © lazurny / Adobe Stock.

He wanted me to say it was OK. But I wouldn’t.

I could have insisted. But I didn’t.

It was just less than two weeks until Thanksgiving. I was driving the boys to school, and I broached the topic.

Since BR was 6 years old, we have had the tradition to go to Manhattan on Thanksgiving to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. His younger brother, SJ, had been an attendee of the parade since he was 7.

In 2016, when he turned 12, BR decided he was not interested in going to the parade. At the time, I was surprised. Disappointed. Hurt.

But a year had passed. And while I asked the question of “Do you want to go to the parade?,” I was sure I knew the answer. I just hoped that SJ would also not answer in the negative.

However, both boys said yes. And quickly. I was excited.

As Thanksgiving drew closer and plans for the holiday came up, I made sure to mention I would be going to the parade with both of my boys.

I was excited to share the news. My oldest boy’s returning to go the parade felt like a reprieve. Yeah, he’s growing up and needs his own space, but on Thanksgiving, he wanted to go to the parade with his dad.

The night before the parade I called the boys down to make a game plan for the next day: when we would leave, what food we would eat, etc.

BR’s only question was, “When are we going to get home?”

“What are you worried about that for?”

“I just want to know when we’ll be home.”

“I don’t know. Like 1 o’clock I guess.”

SJ chimed in, “We’re going to go Starbucks like we did last year – right?”

“Yup. If that’s what you want.”

BR said, “Well, you can drop me off before that. I don’t want to go to Starbucks. I’d rather just come home.”

“What are you in such a rush for?”

“You know I don’t really want to go – right?”

“No, I don’t know. When I asked, you said you wanted to go.”

“I was just trying to make you happy. I don’t really like the parade.”

“So, you don’t want to go?”

“Not really. No.”

“Oh.”

“You understand right. I don’t like the parade. It’s kind of boring. All you do is stand there and look at floats.”

“Well, I guess you won’t go then.”

“You understand right? You don’t mind if I don’t go?”

“If you don’t want to go, that’s your call.”

SJ said, “So, it will just be the two of us – right dad?”

“Yup, I guess it will.”

When my wife came down and learned about the change in plans, she was disappointed. She was looking forward to some alone time as she prepared for the holiday. She encouraged our eldest to go and wanted me to join in, but I didn’t. He wanted me to say that I was fine with his situation, but I wouldn’t.

I enjoy parades. The excitement of the crowd puts me in a festive mood.

But that’s not why I’ve been keeping this holiday tradition of taking my children to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade all these years.

When I was younger my father took me to parades. I remember going to the Mummers Parade, a New Year’s Day parade in Philadelphia. My brother says we went to the Thanksgiving Day Parade. Maybe, we went to both. I don’t know. I also have no idea how many times we went.

It’s not about how many times we went or even what parade. I know I went, and I had fun. I know I went with my father and other family members.

So, while my memories of the exact moments are hazy, I remember the feelings clearly. It was fun being with my family at the parade and feeling like part of the parade.

Yeah, I’m into traditions, and I’m obsessed with trying to make memories with my children.

However, by forcing my son to go to the parade, it would dampen his past memories of the times we had there. I would be making him go for myself and not for him.

So, BR, my oldest, has moved on. He’s 13 and ready for a change. I get it. Hopefully, next year, we can find a new holiday tradition and create memories that he’ll fondly recall when he gets older.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. Photo by Charley Lhasa on Foter.com / CC BY-SA. 

We were boys on a mission.

It was Halloween night, and my dad was late picking us up. We stood waiting and waiting for him. But it was the pre-cell phone era, so all we could do was tap our feet impatiently and mutter under our breath.

Dad finally showed up – a miscommunication apparently – and got us home just before the unofficial start time for trick-or-treating in my neighborhood. We quickly changed into our costumes, grabbed old pillow cases to hold our candy and started running from house to house.

Our neighborhood.

We said it was all about the candy. We didn’t care about dress up. We had no patience for a costume that would slow us down. We had no interest in wowing our friends with our creativity.

Yup, it was all about the chocolate. That’s what we told ourselves and anyone who asked. And at the time…

But now looking back maybe it was about something more.

+  +  +

“Thanks for coming,” my wife said to the trick-or-treaters who came to the house. There were two of them. Little kids. Dressed up as superheroes.

“You don’t thank them,” I called out, “they’re supposed to thank you.”

She did not respond. The two trick-or-treaters were the first of six who came to our home on Halloween. That’s right – six. Things got so desperate that my wife requested that one of my sons ring the doorbell when he got home (he and I had to run an errand).

Meanwhile, the bags of candy sat in a bowl waiting to be given away.

But there were no witches or firemen, Harry Potters or Wonder Women, scary clowns or dinosaurs. Our house and block stayed quiet. At least Leila, our dog, was happy. She had little barking to do and was free to continue her usual routine of napping.

+  +  +

On Halloween night, the street was lit up. Every house had their porch light on, so trick-or-treaters could make their way safely to the chocolate-laden promise land.

Children were everywhere. The only parents around were of those whose children were too small to go on their own. We knocked on each other’s door having no doubt that our costume would be appreciated, and we would be rewarded.

+  +  +

We dropped our youngest off at his friend’s house. He and some others were being driven, by the parent of another friend, to a different neighborhood in town. Apparently, it’s the place to be. It’s a buzz of activity on Halloween night.

Meanwhile, on the streets of the rest of the neighborhoods, the only hint of Halloween is the sporadic decorations that don the homes. Pumpkins, witches, skeletons, and spiderwebs that look more lonely than scary on a desolate Halloween.

+  +  +

My wife and I were talking a couple of months back.

“I think our neighbor directly across the street passed away.”

“What makes you say that?”

“There were a lot of cars at the house for a few days. And lately I’ve noticed they have so many things on trash day. I think they’re emptying out the house.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that too.”

We’ve been in our house for 10 years. There are eight houses on our block.

The first winter we were here I helped this neighbor with the shoveling. It was a big snow, and I thought I would do them a favor. The husband started giving me directions and didn’t bother with a thank you. It was the last time I helped – let their kids come and do it, I figured.

And that was our only interaction.

I know nothing about them. If the wife was standing in front of me, I would not recognize her. Brown eyes blue eyes, chubby or thin – I have no idea what she looks like.

+  +  +

I miss Halloween. I miss seeing trick-or-treaters, the kids in their costumes. I miss giving out candy (I do like the leftovers).

I miss getting to know my neighbors.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. Photo by rawpixel on Unsplash

“Dad, they shouldn’t give us so much homework to do during summer. It’s not fair and it’s not right.”

I nod my head in agreement with my son, and tell him part of me agrees with him, but it doesn’t matter because this isn’t a debate. His homework is his responsibility. It’s part of the joy of going into 8th grade and getting ready for high school.

High school.

It doesn’t seem possible that my son is almost old enough to be in high school. It is hard to fathom how fast time has gone, but it’s growing easier to imagine a time when he will not be a little boy any more.

Truth is that little boy doesn’t exist and hasn’t in years. I remember the baby and the toddler he was. I see pieces of the first, second and third grader too but the little face and chubby cheeks are harder to see now.

His voice hasn’t really changed yet, but it’s not a little boy’s voice anymore. It’s somewhere in between. While his language is far more sophisticated, the pitch is still (somewhat) high.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m making a mistake by not pushing you harder,” I tell him. “Sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake when I was in high school by not pushing myself harder. I figured out the angles and learned how to get things done.”

He looks at me and smiles.

“I’m telling you this because I want you to learn from my mistakes. Figuring out how to beat the system didn’t make my life easier. I’ve had to work harder because of it,” I say.

That’s only sort of true.

I want him to do better, to have more and to get more out of life than I have. It is not that my life has been so hard because compared to many others, it hasn’t been. But the last five years or so have been among the hardest of my life, and they’ve made me question things like nothing else ever has.

Don’t ask me to tell you if it is just a quirk of fate or a midlife crisis because I’m not particularly interested in labeling it. What I know is that this period has been among the most painful and challenging of my life. A label won’t make it any better or any worse.

Platitudes won’t help me feel any better nor will they make me more or less confident about the advice I am giving.

What I want is for my children to be the conductors of their lives. I want them to recognize the value of hard work and a good education. I want them to see they can’t control everything that happens, but they can manage their response to it.

Material things can be taken from you, but your education cannot be. An educated person who is willing to work hard and is resourceful has an advantage. A person who understands how to roll with the changes and moments in life has an advantage.

“Dad, I want to watch one more show and then I’ll go read.”

“You can do that,” I say. “Remember when you’re overwhelmed with work and desperate to go to sleep you chose to watch one more show. Manage your time or it will manage you. Work smarter, not harder.”

He nods his head and smiles, and I head upstairs.

Part of me wonders if I’m giving him too much leeway. Part of me wonders if I should push a bit harder now to help him become more disciplined. My gut says he’s a good kid and that he’ll do better if I let him figure it out for himself.

My grandfather always said you can’t screw an old head on young shoulders, and he was right. I won’t make my issues into my son’s. We’re different people.

Later on, he’ll say good night. He’ll thank me for pushing him to read more. I’ll nod my head and smile. As he walks away, I’ll think again about how yesterday he was a baby who had no teeth and, now he is a kid with hair under his arms.

Time passes far too quickly.

A version of “Educated Children” appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. Photo by sean Kong on Unsplash

My mother made plans. At 5 p.m., the family would gather at our house for a barbecue. Lovely. After all, it was July Fourth and barbecuing is one of those Independence Day things to do along with seeing fireworks, having picnics, watching baseball, etc.

But there was a problem. We didn’t have a grill.

Well, not exactly. We had the unopened box from Sears with all the parts of a grill.

All we had to do was put it together. My father and I, that is.

My father had a number of good qualities he passed down to me and we shared – a love of sports, a sense of humor, an appreciation for ice cream, etc. But handy, he was not.

He loved model planes and trains and bliss for him included putting together one and painting it (while eating some ice cream as noted above). Yet putting together anything bigger than a model … well, that wasn’t a strength of his. To put it mildly.

And I inherited this trait, too.

For my father, it was always about the proper tools. He’d search our garage which had more junk than Fred Sandford’s lot. I’m not so sure my father wanted to find the tool he was looking for. If he didn’t find the tool, he could blame the construction issues on not having the proper one.

Maybe, the tool was somewhere in that mess of a garage, but it wouldn’t appear again until it was unneeded.

Anyway, we got outside early and took out all the parts for the grill. We separated and stacked them neatly. Then, we looked at the instructions – there must have been 87 steps. To clarify, it’s not like we were building some ornate fire pit. It was probably a glorified hibachi. However, it was electric – hence the complications.

After a sigh and a silent “oh, crap,” we proceeded. We had seven hours to figure this out.

As the day dragged on, we made halting progress. There were meltdowns, questioning if the barbecue looked like the picture, panic attacks, and consideration of ordering pizza. More than a few times, we questioned what my mother was thinking.

At around 3 o’clock, the barbecue looked pretty much like the picture, and we only had a few missing parts. We, in our mechanical wisdom, deemed them unnecessary.

There was one final step. We had to make sure the grill would light. The grill was supposed to light with a simple turn of a knob. However, something went wrong (could blame the manufacturer?) and my father and I determined we would light a match, throw it in, and turn the knob at the same time.

Before making sure the grill would light, we took a break. We had a cold drink and looked at our creation.

“You think it’ll work?”

“I hope so.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“So, whose going to light it?”

After we couldn’t nurse our drinks anymore and with go-time ticking closer, we approached the grill.

My father lit the match and turned the knob. And nothing happened.

He tried again. Nothing happened.

After making a bunch of suggestions and him repeating, “I did that,” we decided to try together.

He would light the match, and I would turn the knob.

I had nightmare visions of creating our own Fourth of July fireworks.

As my father dropped the burning match in, I turned the knob.

And jumped back.

Hey, I prefer pizza.

Anyway, as I jumped back, I smacked into my father who had also taken a few steps back.

My father and I looked on together as the flame caught the fuel and the fire caught. We had put together a working grill. Now, it didn’t look exactly right and it made some odd noises, but that night the family barbecued and everyone was happy.

We did it. My father and I saved Independence Day. And we survived to tell the tale when we later went to see the real fireworks.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. Photo Danny Gallegos on Unsplash