In Norwood, it was always sparklers and red hot dogs. We’d crowd around the dinner table, eating red hot dogs on white bread with yellow mustard, fresh corn on the cob, and red, white, and blue ice cream for dessert.

Oh, I hated that ice cream: worse than Neapolitan (Grandmom’s favorite): the chocolate was replaced with blueberry, and I would wriggle in agony, dreading that horrible blue stuff.

Then the cousins would all go out in the yard, and Grandmom would light our sparklers for us. She always had a big box of them, but we were only allowed one at a time. We would jump and dance in the dark, confusing the fireflies, making stars.

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One year in Vermont, the Whelihan boys brought fireworks and set them off in the field. It was loud and fun, but I worried about a grass fire.

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Fourth of July is a busy day in the upper village: the firemen cook up a barbecue (hamburgers, hot dogs, and such: not what a Carolinian or a Texan would call a barbecue), and there’s a parade. Lots of the horse owners ride in the parade, or dust off their old-fashioned carriages.

Best of all, though, is the kilt and kazoo band: paper hats, lengths of tartan strapped on over shorts (topping sandals and sneakers), and a bunch of kazoos played off-key. I’ve never participated (why??), but I’ve cheered on my dad, uncles, cousins.

Town-sponsored silliness. I can really get behind that.