What Fourth of July means to the Deadly Daughters

Elizabeth Zelvin

This is the holiday that has my husband flipping over hamburgers and hot dogs, an annual event. (He grills, but usually prefers a good steak or such elevated fare as jumbo shrimp and alder-smoked salmon.) For me, the essential element of the holiday is fireworks, the more spectacular the better. I like to sit as close to the source as possible so that the bursts blossom right over my head and I can feel the bass thumps in my chest. Do I wax patriotic? No, I’m too much of a historical relativist. After researching my book about what really happened when Columbus “discovered” America, I’m keenly aware of the ambiguities in any such event, the American Revolution included. But overall, I’m glad it happened—and bring on those fireworks!

Julia Buckley

For me, the 4th of July used to look like this:




These are scanned right out of my family scrapbook (which I abruptly stopped doing about five years ago because it was SO time consuming. My sons will think that one day I just stopped loving them. :)

Yes, the 4th was once about face paint and patio-chalk-flags and excited little boys. I remember one magical fourth, on the evening of which we went to the biggest town park with our blanket and some provisions and waited, with what seemed the entire village, for the fireworks to start. One of my college friends had joined us, the new godmother of my youngest son, and 11-month-old Graham seemed to sense their bond, because he spent the evening crawling on her and occasionally biting her toes.

The fireflies were out, and my older son (the one in the pictures) skipped around and thought everything was SO exciting!

Now they are 16 and almost 13, and seemingly young existentialists. The most exciting thing in life these days is the never-ending array of video games that they have in their collection, and it is indeed hard to pry them away.

But they still love the fireworks, Liz--just like you and every good American. :)

Jeri Westerson

When I was a kid, it was all about the fireworks. But less about big park displays and more about our neighbors getting together with those streetside stands of purchased fireworks: sparklers, Whistling Petes, those whirly things that spun on the ground. We'd pool our resources and have a safe and sane fireworks show all our own.

We can't buy those anymore as they have been outlawed in many California counties so we have to travel to outlying cities to seek out those city park fireworks displays. I like putting together gourmet picnic baskets of wonderful little salads and grilled chicken on skewers, cheeses and fruit. Wine. You also don't get embarrassed about being a little extra patriotic and get the opportunity to just reflect on the past and what brought us to today, appreciating the freedoms we have that even some of the freest democratic countries don't quite enjoy.

Sheila Connolly

I lived in the Philadelphia area for twenty years total, at various times in my life, including elementary school.  Yet somehow my suburban Quaker school never offered us a tour of Independence Hall, although I have a dim memory of sitting in a bus and watching the Liberty Bell go by.

When as an adult I worked in Center City, within walking distance of the site, did I ever do the tour thing?  No.  Maybe I'm a history snob and prefer obscure places to tourist Meccas.  It took a visit from out-of-state relatives to force me into the building.

We all probably know the bare bones of the story--representatives of the colonies locked together in a room, the windows closed so no one could eavesdrop on them as they hammered out the Declaration of Independence.  One wonders if they were allowed to remove coats (probably wool) and wigs, and roll up their shirtsleeves, to get the job done.  Let me tell you, it gets hot in Philadelphia in July!

So when at long last I saw that chamber, I was struck almost viscerally by how small it was.  Crammed together, hot, tired, and in equal parts frustrated, exhausted and exhilarated, a small group of men drafted a single document that changed the history of the world. Being in that space made them human for me.

If you're ever in Philadelphia, it's worth the visit.


Postscript:  I'm a member of the DAR, which celebrates the role that our Revolutionary War ancestors played in the founding of the country.  So far I can list thirteen of mine who participated in some way, and mainly they're in Massachusetts, where I now live.  I visit them regularly.  Here is one of my ancestors, alongside his brother.  The house they were raised in was the inspiration for the Orchard Mystery series.

Sandra Parshall

For me July 4 means the height of the blooming season for the hundreds of daylily plants in my garden -- a glorious sight, prettier than any fireworks display. At least it used to mean that, until the deer in the nearby woods discovered how delicious daylily buds are (they're sweet and tender and are used in some Asian stir-fry recipes). For the past few years we've waged a battle throughout June to protect the precious buds that should burst into gorgeous bloom around the 4th of July. And we've been losing. But this year things are looking up. We've been extra diligent in applying revolting repellent spray, and although we've lost some buds to the deer, the plants have plenty left. Some have already survived to the point of blooming, and others are fattening up, waiting their turn. The countdown begins. What will I find when I walk through the garden on July 4 -- the sad snipped-off stalks that once held flower buds, or a riot of colorful blossoms? Will this be the Independence Day we liberate our garden from the tyranny of the deer?

Poe's Deadly Daughters Celebrate Summer

Happy Fourth of July to all our visitors! We're taking the opportunity to celebrate summer in words and pictures.

Elizabeth Zelvin:
I've already had the high point of my summer, a visit by my granddaughters, ages 2 and 5, to our summer home at the, er, modest end of East Hampton. I now understand why they say it takes a village to raise a child! I needed a three-and-a-half-hour nap when they left. But I wouldn't have missed a minute. I had a revelation about the nature of the shrill cries of children at the beach: my younger granddaughter stood at the edge of the ocean shrieking with sheer delight every time a breaker reached her feet. My other favorite summer thing is fireworks. I like to sit close, where the sound of each explosion thumps in my chest and the bursts of color appear to break right over my head. The spectacular fireworks on the beach at East Hampton no longer take place on the Fourth of July, because that's when the piping plovers are nesting on the sand. By Labor Day weekend, the fledglings have all flown away, so that's when we get the fireworks.

Sharon Wildwind
Knitted vests? This is a summer blog, right. What is that crazy Canadian woman thinking? She’s thinking that so far, in Calgary, it’s been a cold, wet summer. Last time I checked, my single brave cucumber plant was knitting herself a scarf and the tomato plants had installed a sauna. I have a passion for variegated yarn and unfortunately, the more enticing the variegation the more expensive the yarn, so I buy a skein or two instead of enough to make a whole vest. Those little two-ball stashes had grown to the point that I was having trouble closing the wool stash box lid. And I need some new clothes for fall. So, Before the hot weather sets in—if it’s coming at all—I am spending evenings doing two of my favorite things: designing and knitting vests and watching British cop dramas. John Thaw and yummy Mexican yarn. Or maybe that’s yummy John Thaw and Mexican yarn. Whatever. That’s my idea of summer. Have a good one, everyone.

Lonnie Cruse
Up until last week, the spring/summer was extremely enjoyable. Then it became extremely hot. A friend of ours owns a car wash on a major street in Paducah. We passed it on a recent Sunday night, and his huge digital thermomitor registered a whopping 100 degrees at six o'clock at night! PUUUlease. 100? When the sun was nearly down?


Folks here complained about the heat, then we exhanged guilty looks, realizing that while we were hot, we did have electricity again, and food, and we weren't wearing layers of clothing to keep warm, and we were able to travel about our area without fear of ice-leaden tree limbs falling without warning (several residents were injured or killed a few months back by them) and no fear of slippery roads. So right now, we're mostly thankful that winter is over and we can be out and about, enjoying life beyond our heating elements. And the heat wave passed, again, on a Sunday.

Summer, to me, is gathering with friends, good food, good chatter, lots of laughter, soft breezes, beautiful sunsets. Early mornings, watering the flowers and whatever vegetables or herbs I have. Sitting on my porch, watching the birds fight at the feeders, raising their babies, surviving. And the freedom to enjoy all this, hard won for us by our troups over the long decades of this country.

May your summer be full of warm days and cold ice cream!

Julia Buckley
For me, summer and my American Dream take the form of finding the time, at last, to enjoy what I have. It's nice to have those summer days when I can wake up to the joy of having no pressing obligations.

I can lie there and contemplate the graceful movements of a tree outside my window; I can plan family outings, like the one pictured, where we took the boys for a picnic at an old water mill (which used to be a stop in the Underground Railroad). I can clean my house and in the process I can declutter what is not needed or re-discover all of the possessions that I had forgotten in my work-absorbed existence.

Summer brings relaxation, and that brings a return to sanity. It also allows me the luxury of nostalgia for all summers past: little boys having lemonade sales on sweltering days; bunches of cousins sharing ice cream on a park bench; my husband and I taking a rare meandering walk together, talking about things that aren't chore lists. But for this summer, I look forward to summer days in which I can mow my lawn and inhale the fragrance of fresh-cut grass, then enjoy a cherry coke at my patio table. I look forward to summer nights in our cool front porch, festooned with party lights, where we can plot our futures while the day goes on forever.

Sandra Parshall
I hate winter with a passion that probably seems comical to some people. I view it as an aberration to be endured until the world returns to normal. From the moment leaves begin to color in autumn, my mantra is, “I want summer back, I want summer back.” Others may wax rhapsodic about fresh snow piled on the tree branches, but I’d rather look up into a tree and see something like this fledgling robin I snapped recently as he energetically plucked out what remained of his baby down. The world is reborn in every new life.


Others may welcome the crispness of winter air, but I want the heat. I want it to hit me in the face when I step out the door. I want to hear cicadas in the trees and watch fireflies winking across the lawn at night. I want to see my garden transformed from a barren stretch of winter mulch to a glorious jumble of color. We have to apply a noxious potion called “Not Tonite, Deer” to the daylilies if we want to see any blossoms, but they’re worth the trouble.


Warm weather was late in coming this year. Cold, wet days dragged on through spring, cheating us out of what is normally a gorgeous, although brief, season in the Washington, DC, area. But summer is here now, a real Washington summer that's hot and muggy and fragrant. Red fox kits and raccoon cubs chase each other around the back yard late at night, discovering the world in their first months of existence. The garden is abloom and the battle against browsing deer is in full swing. Life is good again. Get out there and enjoy it!

Fourth of July

By Lonnie Cruse

Fourth of July. I think back to watching the fireworks at Cashman Field in Las Vegas, NV when I was a little girl. I hated the loud ones that go boom with no sparkles. All noise and no beauty. Still hate them. But I love the newer ones that spread out like a bow tie. Or those that go off, and off, and off, and . . . . Wow!

Fourth of July. Most times it's too hot and muggy, now and then it's rainy, and once in a blue moon, it's downright cold. Picnics, pot lucks, too much food, too many people, legal fireworks the city sets off over the river or illegal fireworks somebody's cousin slipped off to Sikeston, MO to buy and set off. Skeeter bugs, bug spray, candles, paper plates, and the neighbor's dog, hoping to score some dropped food. Sparklers swung in circles, lighting up the night. Red, white, and blue. Uncle Sam. Patriotism.

Fourth of July. However you celebrate the anniversary of our free country, and hopefully give thanks to those who died to keep it that way, may you have way too much fun and too much food and too many people in your life. And too many fireworks. Do, please, be careful. Those sparklers get hot.