Fourth of July: Clay Street Dreams

Is there a tradition better than our great American one? Not many.

Today, I want to acknowledge something important about preserving traditions and passing them forward. We can't preserve every tradition exactly as it was. Even when we want to, some things have to evolve. For me, the Fourth of July has become one of those things.

The Fourth of July at my grandparents' house on Clay Street was pure magic.

All my cousins would come in from Missouri, and with them my Uncle Phil would bring a truckload of fireworks. (You couldn't get the good ones in Illinois, so he smuggled them across state lines.) We would gather in Gene and Betty's backyard with my dad's entire side of the family—and then some.

Their house on Clay Street was just a few blocks from Riverside Park, where the city's fireworks show lit up the sky. It was a prime spot for parking so many, many friends would join the Graeffs on Clay Street. For several years, the adults watched from the backyard. But eventually the trees grew taller, and even though they probably wished they didn't have to, they started making the walk down to the bandshell with everyone else.

Until the early '90s, I also remember the carnival at Riverside Park. My older cousins would take me during the day, and we'd ride until we ran out of tickets. That carnival eventually ended too. I later read it came down to logistics and insurance, and the city decided to put all of its carnival eggs into the Apple Festival basket instead. Looking back, I think that was probably the right decision.

But for years, the Fourth of July started at my grandparents' house.

Grandpa grilled chicken. Grandma made her apple tart strudel every single year. It was my cousin JJ's birthday, so there was always plenty of watermelon because that's what she loved. Uncle Phil put on a Missouri fireworks show for the entire block. Then, just before 9:00, we'd all walk down to Riverside Park to watch the city's fireworks before making our way back to Clay Street for the after-party fireworks show courtesy of Uncle Phil.

It was like Christmas in July.

The fireworks. The food. But mostly, it was the people.

Other than Christmas, it was the one holiday when I could count on seeing all of my Graeff cousins. We held onto that tradition for as long as we could. Then we all grew up. We went to college, got married, started our own families. Even then, some years we'd find our way back to Clay Street for the big show.

Then, in 2012, everything changed.

Within six months of each other, just before they would have celebrated 70 years of marriage, both Grandpa and Grandma passed away.

And with that, it felt like my childhood came to a close. At 28, I'd say it was a pretty good run.

In time, the house on Clay Street was sold too. Along with it went our Fourth of July gathering place.

So the tradition changed.

Over the next decade, it took many different forms. One year, my mom, dad, and brother came to visit me in Boulder. We drove up to Estes Park and spent the afternoon outbacking down the mountain. Many years I wasn't with family at all. Some years I skipped the festivities entirely because it just wasn't the same.

Then I met Jake, and the Fourth of July changed again.

I'll never forget our first Fourth of July together. It was the day I met his family. He brought me home for their annual celebration, which also happened to be his mom Catherine's birthday. His British mother, of all people, was born on the Fourth of July. I brought an Apple Pie. 

Before long, my parents started joining us each year to celebrate both America and my mother-in-law Catherine.

I don't make Grandma Betty's apple strudel anymore because my mother-in-law's favorite dessert is strawberry shortcake. So for the past several years, our new tradition has been making strawberry shortcake together.

Tonight, Betty helped me make it.

As she stirred the batter, I couldn't help but think about all the traditions we had to leave behind in order to create new ones.

My Uncle Phil's family still gathers every year for an even bigger fireworks show with all of his grandkids. My dad now brings fireworks up for my own kids after making his annual shopping trip to Missouri with Uncle Phil. The traditions continue—just in different ways.

We hold onto what we can.

Pieces of the old traditions survive, but they take new shape with each new generation and every new member of the family.

That's how traditions endure. Not by staying exactly the same, but by giving us something worth carrying forward.

And what we can't pass on...

We carry within us.

Happy Fourth of July. Here's to 250 years of America—and to the traditions that remind us not only where we came from, but who we're becoming.