July 4, 2012

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There is some confusion about the date of our nation’s actual independence. The Congressional Congress voted itself free of British rule on July 2, 1776. On July 4, it ratified the Declaration of Independence itself. On August 2 the document was formally signed and made public. John Adams wrote to his wife that he thought a national celebration should be held annually on July 2, but July 4 became the official holiday.

If July 4 in Philadelphia had been as hot in 1776 as it is this week, the signers might have settled on a Tweet of Independence and then repaired to New Hampshire to skinny dip at the lake where Governor Romney and his family are vacationing. Ninety degree heat in Palm Springs, not available to the founding fathers in 1776, is nothing but in the City of Brotherly Love where the humidity may be in the nineties as well, it can be oppressive.

Down along the Delaware River where the old city was located and the signers all stayed, one had to contend with open sewers, unpurified water and livestock scurrying about. A hot contentious July of word-smithing and jaw-boning and just surviving could not have been a treat. Visitors undoubtedly crowded the local taverns filling up on beer and ale as a treatment for all ills. The quality of the whoring there (a serious consideration at that time for anyone deciding where to hold an important convention) was likely not as competitive as say Charleston or Baltimore or New York as Philadelphia was full of Quakers, serious scholars and those seeking religious freedom. Philadelphia is more often remembered for its fraternal goodwill and not as the pre-Las Vegas fun city. It is remarkable the final document is as literate and well-reasoned as it turned out to be.

We celebrate this day with parades and band concerts, speechifying and fireworks, more beer and ale,  and of course outdoor dining. It is a very American holiday. My favorite part has always been the food, the barbecued chicken and ribs and hot dogs, the cold refreshing potato salad, the crunchy creamy cole slaw, the warm cherry and peach pies with scoops of rich vanilla ice cream that slide right down and feel so comforting in the pit of your stomach. It is American Cuisine’s finest hour. Simple, straight-forward fare.

And then the cool nights when the fireworks are over, and the crowds have gone home, and the stars are shining, and the fireflies appear and flicker in the yard, and the crickets chirp unseen and you can be alone at last with those you love.

Tom Godfrey

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