thirty years of July Fourthing.

Yes. Totally aware that it is practically August.

And I’m fine with writing a post about July Fourth. 

This year we think we calculated that it was Year Thirty for our annual July Fourth at the Farm.

That’s kind of big deal.

What started out three decades ago as a couple of neighboring families and friends taking a tubing trip down the Pigg River, hosting a cook out and shooting off fireworks into the Virginia summer sky, has turned into an annual family reunion and event that calendars get rearranged for and that is held as some sort of holy ground by those of us who love it best.

The routine shifts a little with the year and the seasons of life for the attendees, but there’s almost always a Friday night dinner for the early gatherers or family coming from farther distances. Often it is a tacos-themed sort of meal out in the barn.

This year we spontaneously added in a Talent Show and it was such a hit that we feel certain it’ll be a regular event for next year. And with more time to prep, who knows what sort of acts we’ll enjoy. This year there was can smashing on the head and poetry reciting and break dancing and a comedy skit, among others.

Saturday is the actual party day. Years ago we would spend the morning playing paintball. Whenever that faded in popularity it became a trend to have target practice at the shooting range in the field.  This year the babies grew up to tweens and teens and there was a request for air soft battles. We had a small team taking care of that and I can see the potential for that to come more full circle next year.

In the afternoon a smattering of people always head down to the Pigg River. A lovely float that really deserves a better name, but we can’t control the river’s namesake, now can we? Each year there’s some variety in what we’ll find on the river. Some years it’s shallow and carrying your tube over rocks is required. This year it was high, muddy and fast flowing.  Fast enough for a couple of us to use kayaks instead. It was my first time taking the kayak on the Pigg and let me tell you – what a treat it was to not be sticking to the hot black tire tube for a few hours. I think I’m a fan.

The mud at the ford where we exit the river and catch a ride back to the house in a truck was at an all time high. As in – in thirty years of faithful attendance, I’ve never seen such quicksand mud. So deep. So disgusting. And so wildly satisfying to a portion of our people.

I have only missed one July Fourth in those thirty years. I was a camp counselor at the YMCA of the Rockies the summer before my senior year of college and the camp required me to stay in Colorado all summer.

After the tubing there’s some form of outdoor showering and then all the clean people who didn’t tube join up with those of us still reeking a little of river water and we begin the feast. There’s always pulled pork – it’s essential. And everything else just gets filled in. Favorite salads appear. Lemon desserts can’t be missed. Watermelon salad so good you have to get seconds.

After dinner and dessert and a basic barn clean up, we head to the front yard. Chairs are set out. Blankets are spread. Some people catch up on stories and jokes. A big crowd heads to the field and begins the annual kickball game. Made of way too many people per team, ranging in age from babies in arms to people who no longer volunteer their ages. It’s a silly, light hearted game where a couple people remember to keep score and a lot of ridiculous trash talk is tossed back and forth and maybe a person or two actually cares if they win or lose.

By the time the game winds down the sun is beginning to set and the fireworks team is assembling their goods in the field and we’re gathering the wagons around. (You know, the red flyer wagons.) And we’re settling in and looking up and ready to cheer on the best fireworks show around. (But for real – it’s an incredible show year after year.)

There’s really not anything abut July Fourth that I don’t love. The history. The years. The people. The faces. The stories. The layers of memories stacked on top of one another. The tradition. The every year-ness of it all.

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