Every year when the Fourth of July rolls around, I find myself smiling before I even see the fireworks. Not just because of what the holiday represents, but because of who it reminds me of.
My daddy was a fireworks fanatic.
Even into his later years, nothing brought him more joy than setting off his
pop bottle rockets and roman candles like it was his own personal fireworks
show. He’d skip the deposit fee and save those soda bottles all year long—just
to be ready. He loved the speed, the thrill, and the way those bottle rockets
would zip across the sky, ending with a bang you could feel in your chest.
But he didn’t stop there. He’d light up the roman candles and watch us kids "oooh" and "aaah" as balls of color shot into the night sky from what looked like the smallest, simplest tube. That was my dad—a small man packed with power.
He stood maybe 5'8" on a good day, but you couldn’t tell him he wasn’t a giant. He went to college on a football scholarship and made such an impact as a running back he was later inducted into the Hall of Fame. And he never let us forget: being small didn't mean being less. He taught us how to hold our heads up high, how to fight for our dreams, and yes—how to season pork ribs just right before laying them on the grill. The 4th of July was his day.
But now, all these years later, with the smell of ribs in the air and fireworks bursting overhead, I realize something heartbreaking: I never got the full story. I don’t know how he felt when he was drafted into the Army during his senior year of college. I don’t know how he made it through serving while being shot in the leg. I don’t know what dreams he laid down—or picked up—after the war.
I know his quirks. I know the way he held his barbecue fork and turned those ribs over on the grill. I know his voice when he shouted, “Y’all get back!” But I don’t know the full story of his freedom… or what it cost him.
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