Today, I’m bringing out the two crates.
They sit quietly for most of the year, tucked away with all the other things that only get to breathe for a season. Eleven months out of twelve, they wait. Inside are buntings, flags, little bits of red, white, and blue, and flower decorations that have somehow survived more than two decades of summers, moves, dust, heat, wind, and life.
Little flower arrangements were made by Auntie TJ and Eldon more than twenty years ago. I can still hear them giggling together as they planned their last Independence Day party. When she downsized, she gave them to me. Every time I lift them from the crate, I’m a little surprised all over again. They remain beautiful. Not “still pretty good for their age.” Not “almost ready to retire.” Red-white-and-blue beautiful.
Maybe that is because I only take them out once a year. And quite possibly, beautiful is bathed in memories.
There’s something to be said for things we don’t overuse. Things we don’t leave in the sun until they fade or are tattered in the wind. These little decorations have been given the gift of rest. They’re packed away carefully, protected, and then, for a few days each summer, they return to the light.
I suppose memories are a lot like that, too. Some aren’t meant to sit out every day. Some are too tender. Some are too precious. Some need to be wrapped in tissue and placed gently in a crate until the right season comes around again. Then, when the time is right, we remember.
Decorating for the Fourth of July has always felt different from other holidays. Christmas carries wonder. Thanksgiving carries gratitude. Easter carries resurrection and hope. But Independence Day carries something brave. It carries porch rails draped with bunting, flags snapping in the wind, children with sticky fingers, neighbors gathering outside, and the reminder that freedom has never been free.
Here on the high desert plains, summer doesn’t tiptoe in. It arrives with heat, dust, wind, and a garden hose in HHH’s hand. By the time the Fourth gets close, the flowers are proving they’re tough enough for Nevada. The flags don’t care. They wave anyway. The buntings don’t complain, but simply take their places.
That might be one of the reasons I love decorating for the Fourth. It doesn’t need perfection. It doesn’t ask the garden to be flawless or the porch to be freshly painted. It just asks for a little effort, a little color, and a little remembering.
When I open those crates, I don’t just see decorations. I see TJ’s hands making flowers years ago, never knowing they would still be loved so many summers later. I see family. I see old celebrations. I see houses we’ve lived in, porches we’ve stood on, and seasons of life that have come and gone. I see how something simple can become sacred if it carries enough love.
The Fourth of July comes with noise, fireworks, barbecue smoke, watermelon, paper plates, and all the usual summer chaos. And then, there is gratitude.
Gratitude for freedom and this beautiful country we call home.
Today, Winterpast will begin to look like the Fourth.
Red-White-and-Blue Perfection.
Because it is time.
