Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash.
Over the past few weeks, before dozing off on the couch, I’ve read several posts from people reminiscing about 1976, when the United States marked its bicentennial. They talk about how different it felt. How the country was a different place. How it was a different time.
Well, allow me to offer the following response to these misty-eyed recollections: No duh.
Of course, things have changed in 50 years. So, rather than bemoan the fact that things aren’t the same this time around, I thought I might instead talk about how, specifically, my own personal celebration will be different for America’s 250th birthday than it was for its 200th.
1976: Watching a parade. 2026: Walking my dog.
As a kid, the town where I grew up, Elkins, W.Va., didn’t have an annual Independence Day parade. But on July 4, 1976, they made an exception. My family wasn’t much into parades, but they liked to come out for community events. So, we found a spot along the downtown parade route where my younger sister and I sat on the curb.
I don’t remember much about the parade, except for the high school majorette who dropped her baton and nearly conked me on the head. Impressively, she then picked it up mid-stride and continued down the street. After that, I watched the rest of the parade while standing up.
This year, no parade for me. Instead, I’ll be walking my dog. While on our route, like that high school majorette, she’ll likely drop something that will need to be picked up.
By me.
1976: Watching historic moments on TV. 2026: Watching stupid stuff on TV.
July 4, 1976 was a day of must-see TV. I’m sure that no sooner had I returned home from the parade, I parked myself on the couch to watch the live coverage on the three networks. Throughout the afternoon, they cut to various events going on around the country. The culmination was Operation Sail, a giant naval parade of more than 200 vessels in New York Harbor that attracted millions of people.
Fifty years later, I plan to watch exactly none of the news coverage of the day’s festivities. Instead, I’ll just as likely dial up the Classic Christmas station on Music Choice (we’re in the middle of a vicious heatwave), or reels of old commercials on YouTube.
You know, stupid stuff.
1976: No cookout. 2026: Stand back while I fire up the grill!
My grandfather hated picnics. He once wondered aloud why anyone would want to go out in the woods, sit on a log, and try to balance a paper plate on their knees when they could instead sit at home and eat at their own kitchen table. My dad couldn’t have agreed more.
My dad’s disdain for outside dining carried over to his outdoor cooking skills. You know those charred black chunks that are often associated with grilling? You might think I’m referring to charcoal. I’m not. I’m referring to the dry, overcooked hamburgers my dad pulled off his cheap hibachi.
I’m making burgers this July 4th. But mine will be juicy and delicious. I might even find a log to sit on.
1976: Marveling at the cool commemorative items. 2026: What’s all this crap?
As a kid, I loved all the red, white, and blue patriotic merchandise that was rolled out to mark America’s 200th birthday.
The flag t-shirts. The soft drink cans. The special cereal and snack packaging.
I once had a collection of bicentennial quarters. I was fascinated by the commemorative bicentennial postage stamps. My parents had a commemorative bicentennial syrup bottle they used to dispense homemade salad dressing for 30 years afterward.
It all seemed fun and special. I couldn’t get enough of it.
Now, when I walk into the grocery store and see the array of items that have been trotted out to cash in on America’s latest milestone birthday, I have a different reaction.
The red, white, and blue M&M’s and Rice Krispies? Cool. The commemorative cans of Budweiser? To be expected. But the tacky yard flags, candles, and Ted Nugent-style straw cowboy hats with the patriotic headbands?
I’ll pass.
1976: Fireworks! 2026: Fireworks? Maybe. If it’s not too hot and crowded.
Fireworks were unheard of in Elkins. But, as with the parade, the town made an exception for the bicentennial. I was excited as I had never before seen fireworks in my eight years on Earth. So, this was a big deal.
Only, it turned out to be a big disappointment. We retired to a nearby park across the river from the field where the fire department was orchestrating the show. Finally, once it got dark and the magic hour was at hand, a single flare streaked upward into the sky and exploded in a shower of red, trailing sparks. Then several minutes later, a second flare exploded overhead. A few minutes later, there was a third.
On it went like this for maybe a half hour. One single firework at a time, followed by a long lull. It was unfathomably lame. As a kid growing up in the 1970’s, I’d seen the intro to Love American Style. This was nothing like that. It was totally different. It sucked.
Never before and never again would my hometown feel smaller or less consequential.
A half century later, I’ve since seen many great fireworks displays, mostly in Pittsburgh following baseball games. They were exhilarating and punctuated with a grand finale during which the sky was saturated with bright bursts of color and motion. I loved them all.
But by now, the thrill of fireworks has begun to fade, in part because I’ve become sensitive to how fireworks affect dogs and veterans with PTSD.
This year, I’ll be in Pittsburgh during the big July 4th fireworks show over Point State Park. I might go. Then again, I might also skip the crowds, stay out of the heat, and hang out in the hotel bar.
1976: I want to live to see the tricentennial! 2026: Uh, no.
I was so enamored with America’s bicentennial celebration in 1976 that I remember announcing to my parents that I hoped to live to see the nation’s tricentennial in 2076.
That meant I would need to live to age 108.
What was I thinking? I’ve now seen people close to me grow old and live to advanced ages. To be honest, I’m not interested in having that happen to me.
Besides, I would look stupid as a 108-year-old man padding around with a cane or in a wheelchair while wearing my patriotic straw cowboy hat.
A special day, regardless
This time around, I won’t celebrate like it’s 1976. Because it’s not.
Still, this is a special day, as it should be. And I’ll be proud to recognize it—in my own way—as such.
Happy birthday, America! Save me a piece of cake.
