Nostalgic For The Fourth of July, Millburn Style

The Fourth of July is special in every town, but for Local contributor Gwen Orel, nobody does it better than Millburn.

South Mountain is walking to the high school, carrying lawn chairs, pulling wagons with kids in them. The communal trot to the football field goes down Southern Slope, crosses Main Street, and then down Rector Street, where many of the houses have put July 4th decorations on their front lawn to greet the parade of people going by. Some people sit on their front lawns and wave and say hey. Some of the homes have set up little viewing areas in their backyard (to save the $5, I guess), and have already cracked open the beers.

I love July 4th in Millburn.

One year when I was visiting from Alabama we had to run down the street and got there just in time, just as they were turning off the floodlights on the field to signal, fireworks are starting. I flew home for it, when I was working at the Alabama Shakespeare Festival, because there’s just no place I’d rather be on July 4th.

It’s not that the fireworks are magnificent (“I think they are,” says my mother). They’re really very pretty, but it’s small town fireworks, not too extravagant, though it’s nice that they seem so close overhead. And it’s nice too that you can lie down on the field and look up, instead of standing somewhere in some big city nearby where they might be fancier. One year when I was visiting from Alabama we had to run down the street and got there just in time, just as they were turning off the floodlights on the field to signal, fireworks are starting. I flew home for it, when I was working at the Alabama Shakespeare Festival, because there’s just no place I’d rather be on July 4th.

I have also flown in from Pittsburgh. And from California. I wouldn’t want to spend the holiday weekend anywhere else.

For a long time one of the first things that lit up was always a kind of light-up float to the side of the field that read “1776.” I didn’t see it last summer, so maybe it’s dead.

In California, fireworks were accompanied by a brass band (here, they play some recorded Sousa to accompany the fireworks once they start). But Northern California nights are cool, and wearing a sweatshirt to watch fireworks just felt wrong. That humidity we complain about during the day keeps the night air soft.

The year I didn’t make it home from Alabama it rained so they were few, but I would guess the city of Montgomery, Alabama’s capital, normally does something impressive (after all, it’s the South, where fireworks are still legal for home use, so lots of people have skills).
What I love about fireworks in my home town is how home town they are. I missed out on a lot of the 4th growing up, because I was away at camp or summer school from age 7-17. I wanted to be; I had pushed to go to sleepaway camp like my big brothers so ended up going younger than they did. Sleepaway camps had some great things, but July 4th at camp was always on the lame side. Camps are made of wooden cabins, and fireworks were over the lake, and brief.

But I always remembered July 4th here. And when I was older and could come home then, I always did. There used to be a circus in the morning at the high school, with high wire walkers. There was (and still is) a carnival at Taylor Park, with Revolutionary War reenactors.

And there were always fireworks at night.

It’s all very Music Man, heartland, Doublemint gum ad stuff. I’d say Bruce–and I love that the DJ blares Bruce Springsteen on the field in the hours the field is open before the fireworks begin, because he is our New Jersey hero–but Bruce songs are a little dark.

Not so my small town July 4th celebrations.

There is an admission fee that covers the whole day–ten dollars in advance, twelve on the day, including the fireworks. It’s a good deal, since that includes all the rides and games. And I like that they are sold at the stores around town, like the Millburn Deli, whose Sloppy Joes really are world famous and sighed for by many scattered friends on Facebook. And you have to be from Northern New Jersey to know that a Sloppy Joe is not ground beef in tomato sauce, but meat, Russian and cole slaw on three layers of bread.
The tables collecting tickets at the park aren’t very aggressive, and people wander in at different points in the park. I am not advocating this, but nobody seems to mind too much, particularly if it’s clear you’re not sneaking in to the rides. I love this, too.

Used to be that the ice cream was free. Now they cost a few dollars. And the rides are way more impressive.

But the most popular attraction for small boys remains whatever truck is parked on the lawn, all shined up, that they can climb into (dump trucks are very popular) and work the levers. And pony rides.
Little “duck races” (small floats) once an hour on the Rahway river trickling through the park add a tiny touch of excitement.

Not being a Mom myself, I don’t get up for the decorated trike and stroller parade at nine (or the patriot award), or attend the girls’ all-star softball tournament or boys and girls lacrosse and baseball skills demonstration at 10. But I like to swing by the park just to soak in the atmosphere, and hear, once again, from the Revolutionary War reenactors how the cannons are fired, and cover my ears as they are (on the hour), and hear about what battles were fought nearby, what happened on Washington Rock.

New Jersey was one of the original 13 colonies. Let ’em make jokes about what exit, we know better. I wish there were a few more events for grown-ups without kids — senior citizens devoid of grandkids wander a little aimlessly, like me.

I say, let’s go all the way into Norman Rockwell land and add a bake sale, a small crafts
exhibit or tables, square dancing.

On the football field at Millburn High, we always meet people we know. One year we met my brother Stephen’s high school friend Bruce Etterman, with his wife and kids. Mom always meets friends too.
My cousins, the Russells, moved back to Short Hills from New Orleans, after Hurricane Katrina. I bet they have nice fireworks there, but there’s something about being home. Friends’ parents recognize me and tell me I look just the same as I did when I was eight.

We took my grandfather, Louis Keller, who was in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s, one year. “Can I stay here?” he said. He didn’t grow up in Millburn, but it felt like home to him.

You can get to the football field one minute before it starts and still find a good place to sit. But it’s more fun to go a little early and hang out on the field, while the kids make themselves dizzy whirling around with the light-up toys for sale. You can buy a few raffle tickets (the prize is part of the pool for the raffle tickets), and iced tea from the lanky high school students manning the truck. Krazy Kat DJ spins tunes, a lot of Bruce, some golden oldies. He tells old, silly jokes.

A student sings the Star-Spangled Banner and everyone stands, some with their hands on their hearts, some proudly, some a little sheepishly at first but then proud too as everyone joins in and hands go onto hearts. It’s inspiring. It’s moving.

You know, it’s community.

Like the rag tag army fighting the well-outfitted and well-trained British soldiers who were thinking about their homes when they fought for Independence. The display of patriotism on the high school field is real. It’s not some far away ideal. It’s those neighbors and friends all watching together and ooh-ing and aah-ing at the same moments.

I like the green ones best. But the show is only a bonus.

You can see the fireworks of Springfield starting overlapping ours… New Jersey towns are close together. You hear them still as you walk home.