On this Fourth of July, Our American Stories proudly brings you a special celebration of what makes our country unique. We’re joined today by Dennis Peterson, a writer from South Carolina, who shares his vivid memories of Independence Day throughout his life. From childhood traditions in East Tennessee to community gatherings in Pennsylvania, Dennis takes us on a journey through the fireworks, family, and friendships that shaped his American story.
His account vividly brings to life the simple pleasures of backyard cookouts and the breathtaking grandeur of professional fireworks displays. Dennis shares moments of community spirit, the exhilarating booms and bursts that light up the summer night, and the profound experiences that shaped his views on this national holiday. It’s a powerful reminder of how we create lasting traditions and the deep desire to make every Fourth of July a truly memorable experience for our loved ones.
📖 Read the Episode Transcript
Dennis John Adams, our nation’s first vice president, wrote to his wife Abigail after passage of the Declaration of Independence. He described how he thought the day should be celebrated by future generations: “It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forevermore.” Apparently, my father had never heard about that quotation, because when I was a kid growing up in East Tennessee, our celebrations of July Fourth were decidedly low-key. We never had any fireworks, not even a solitary firecracker. Daddy thought fireworks were too dangerous for us. “You’ll blow off your fingers or put out an eye,” he direly prophesied. “I don’t work hard just so you can blow up my money,” he declared. So July Fourth celebrations were quiet, reduced to a cookout and maybe a few games of badminton in the backyard, and we kids came through every July Fourth with all fingers and eyes intact. Fireworks were illegal in Knox County. One had to go to the fireworks stand just across the county line in neighboring Union County to buy fireworks. Regardless of their illegality, in Knox County, fireworks were ubiquitous all over the county on July Fourth. The police simply looked the other way unless someone complained about unruly revelers. A few times our family would drive into the State Fairgrounds in Knoxville to watch the officially sanctioned fireworks display held there every Fourth, but usually we had to be content to watch them at home from a great distance. We lived outside the city limits miles from the fairgrounds, but if it was a clear night, we could see some of the highest rockets and mortar shells burst on the horizon beyond the ridges, and we could hear the delayed booms of the explosions. We saw the color bursts several seconds before we heard the report. In fact, the colors often had fallen from view by the time the sound of the boom reached us. After I was married and was living in a row home in southeastern Pennsylvania, the volunteer fire department of the little town sponsored and conducted an impressive fireworks display at the nearby community park. We didn’t have to leave home to enjoy ninety percent of the performance. Other townhouses blocked our view of ground displays, but the aerial displays were just as if we had been on the launching pad. People from outside our community crowded into our development hours before dark, staking claim to any empty parking spaces. As darkness fell, the residents gathered their lawn chairs in their tiny postage-stamp patches of lawns, or aligned them along the sidewalks to ensure a good view, and the firemen never disappointed us in the quality of the fireworks they chose to feature. They always announced the start of the performance by launching a huge mortar shell that exploded high, high in the air, showering multicolored sparks across the entire sky and rattling windows all over the community. They left no one doubting when the fireworks would begin. Then they proceeded to launch their featured fireworks for the next twenty or thirty minutes. Everyone ooed and odd at the beautiful display of colors. Kids screamed with each ear-splitting, chest-pounding explosion. Everyone voiced a running commentary of how great the preceding display had been, until the next one interrupted their opinion, and that one produced an even more laudatory commentary. They applauded and cheered loudly when the grand finale was fired, and it was always the loudest, longest, highest, and most colorful display of the night. But no matter how long the performance lasted, every spectator was left wanting more, and the firemen seemed to oblige by providing bigger and better and longer lasting performances with each succeeding year. But then one year it all came to an ignominious end. The echoes from the shot that announced the start of the show had barely died away. The firemen had chosen to begin with several ground displays, so those of us who lived several blocks from the park couldn’t see what was happening, but we could hear their reports and the worrying of the spinning displays, and see their glow above the rooftops. But then the sound of explosions became a rolling and rumbling roar, and the glow above the rooftops suddenly became much brighter, and then that sound was replaced by an eerie silence. We saw only a dark sky above us. Then we heard sirens and knew that something was wrong. Then words spread like wildfire as an eyewitness ran back from the park with the horrifying news. A mortar had fallen over when one of the ground displays was lit, and it had shot along the ground right into the cash of combustibles, igniting them and scattering explosives all over the park. The next day, a curious youngster was exploring the burnt grounds of the park and found one of the few fireworks that had not been ignited by the conflagration. It exploded as he held it, severing his thumb. After that tragedy, the volunteer fire department refused to sponsor another fireworks display. The risk was too great. That was years ago. Our kids were so young that I doubt if any of them remembers that event. But after they were married, had kids of their own and returned to visit on other Fourths of July, I wanted to give the grandkids a celebration to remember. A few people in our small subdivision sometimes shot off a few fireworks every year, but big or small, everyone enjoyed the private fireworks displays. One year, I decided to join the performers rather than remain a mere spectator, so I bought a supply of assorted fireworks and laid out an area of the backyard to be my launching pad. It rained the afternoon of the Fourth, and the humidity remained high. As darkness approached, brief periods of sprinkles continued off and on, but rain or no rain, the show would go on. I lit the fuse on the first mortar round, designed to be heard more than seen, and ran. I slipped on the wet grass and nearly fell. The mortar did its job, announcing to the whole neighborhood the beginning of our performance. As we fired more and more of the power techniques, the smoke got thicker. It got so thick that I could hardly see the fuses as I tried to light them in the rays of my weak flashlight. Coughing and sputtering and slipping on the wet grass, I kept the performance going. With neighbors also shooting their own fireworks, our community sounded as though it were waging a small civil war. One year, my niece Charity and her husband Brandon visited over the Fourth with their newly adopted baby daughter, Bren. While Brandon and I lit the fireworks, Charity and my wife Connie watched. Toward the end of the display, we lit one rocket, and the force of the launch turned over the pad, rocketing the projectile toward the house, right where the ladies were sitting. Thankfully, they were alert and jumped aside just in time to avoid catastrophe. I could just hear Daddy’s warning from beyond the grave, “You’ll lose a finger or an eye with fireworks.” But over the years, my appreciation for the Fourth has grown. I’ve realized increasingly what it is that we’re celebrating on the Fourth. It’s not about loud booms and bright and multicolored sparks. We are celebrating our independence from government tyranny. We are celebrating our freedom. That freedom did not come cheaply. It was bought at a great price. With each crackle of firecrackers, with each boom of a mortar shell, with every spray of color and sparkle against the night sky, we should be heeding the advice of John Adams by offering our thanks for the freedom we enjoy in this nation whose birthday we’re celebrating, and we should do so safely.
And a special thanks to Dennis Peterson for that submission, and thank you Demonte for the production. And I’ve been to so many great fireworks celebrations: Macy’s down in the New York Harbor, Saint Louis over the Arch, but my favorite, in the Redneck Riviera up and down the Gold Coast. All you saw were private celebrations, little ones, big ones, and then of course the town ones. The entire beach was lit for an hour straight. It’s a beautiful part of the country. Our Independence Day celebration here on Our American Stories.
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