It seems every time the 4th comes along, I’ve craved a memorable American experience where the pride of patriotism can burst through to the heart through vivid blooms of explosions set to music. How does one find this experience in suburbia? We’ve spent years in California deciding whether to spend the money and endure the crowds to go to a stadium or event somewhere to see the fireworks shows. What we’ve typically done instead is sit on our back patio watching small bursts of color at shows off in the distance: “Is it over? Was that the finale?”
There was a time I looked forward to the 4th of July. It can tap that patriotism that lies present and waiting on a special date each year. It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve felt what I’ve come to expect of the holiday, however. I didn’t realize I’d been missing it; I’ve just come to do without.
When we ever got to talking about what to do for the 4th, I dreamed pictures of something much smaller but much bigger at heart. That vision is real, but it wasn’t anywhere near us where we’d been living in California.
The McMahon Fireworks Show
When the weekend of the 4th arrived this year, I’d taken Evelyn out for a mommy-daughter day in town to Bastrop. We got her hair cut, shared ice cream, and did a little shopping. It wasn’t until we got home that Brent told us some folks from the park had invited us to go with them over to Whizzerville Hall to watch the McMahon Fireworks Show. That was tonight?? I’d seen the whole one big banner on the side of the 80-year-old tin sided building down the road, but I hadn’t noticed the date. We quickly got ready and drove the three-quarter mile down the country road to find about 1000% more people and cars than we’d ever seen there before.
Whizzerville Hall is a nearly hundred-year old building converted to local hang-out and pizza place. It not only has great pizza but is typically filled with small groups of great people. I’d never seen their outdoor area in use, though they have a graveled back patio with tables and white bulb lights strung overhead. Today, cars pulled in along the small highway road any which way they could. Trucks, quads, and workhorse Mules lined the country road running perpendicular to the fields behind the Hall. People were already popping beers from ice chests in the beds of their trucks and sitting with legs dangling over their tail gates.
We lucked out with parking in the small Whizzerville Hall parking lot and found our friends inside at a table looking out of their element surrounded by dozens and dozens of people. There was a line at the counter to place orders (an unexpected sight here!) and every table was occupied. Red, white, and blue clothing accessorized by cowboy hats and boots were everywhere we looked.
We sat down with our friends, nibbled pizza, and sipped on beers in anticipation of the event. It was still light out—at least an hour and a half to the show—but the energy buzzed in wait. Kids ran around the old, wooden floors; Kailyn was no exception. She flitted about and stopped at every table, making eye contact with a huge smile, telling everyone, “Hi!!”
With beers and pizza finished, we “pardon me’d” our way out the back door and found ourselves a piece of parking block log on which to park ourselves. It hadn’t occurred to any of us to bring camping chairs—and we all camp for a living. Go figure!
Others lining the field had certainly come more prepared, though. People sat in lawn chairs bordering the field with ice chests near their feet. The patio of Whizzerville Hall was lit up and in the corner, a tin-peaked bar area was stocked with ice chests where cans of Coors, Miller, and Budweiser could be purchased for $2.
Children ran in the open space with nothing more to keep them entertained than some red frisbees that someone running for Commissioner had handed out. Some had brought a ball to kick around and others were simply playing tag. I happened to have bubbles in my purse (that’s normal, right?), so I blew bubbles and a dozen giggling kids hopped and chased around me, popping bubbles.
Evelyn ran amok with other kids and Kailyn ambled around smiling and telling people, “Hi!”
In addition to families and children, in attendance were volunteer firemen and local constables. With a burn ban in effect, an event like this required a great deal of preparation and precaution. We could see the fireworks laid out on the ground in the distance over the fence, surrounded by a few pick-up trucks and silhouettes of men bent over tending to the final preparations for the show. The neighbor who had contributed through the use of his acreage, cows withstanding, was acknowledged and thanked over the loud speaker.
Children played, people smiled and chatted, and pick-up trucks sat side-by-side up the neighboring country road with families’ legs dangling over tailgates. Music strummed through the air while some people danced and bopped along in delight. As darkness approached, Whizzerville employees walked around handing huge supplies of glow sticks out to the kids. Soon, kids were joining their supplies and efforts to make long glow-stick jump ropes, enjoying a new activity with laughter.
Lights went out and announcements were made. The National Anthem rang out and people all over the field, in lawn chairs, on benches, on blankets, and in the backs of trucks stood immediately, removing hats and caps and placing them over their hearts. My eyes were filled with tears and the show hadn’t even begun.
Through my water-filled eyes, I could just make out what others were watching—the flames of a torch lighting the first of the fireworks in the distance before us and the first red and crackling comet sailed up above the field and trees as the National Anthem drew to a close.
The show itself wasn’t anything to compare to the large budget shows I’d seen in suburbia. It didn’t hold a match to the nightly fireworks spectacle at Disneyland… but it was, by far, the best I’d ever experienced.
It went on for over 40 minutes—an impressive budgetary accomplishment and appreciation of joined small-town community efforts. The music spoke to the heart, which had long been deprived of companionship of others proud of their country and to be American. A lump sat in my throat the entire time and a soft smile traced with tears sat upon my face.
This was the best 4th of July I could remember... and the actual 4th was still days away.
Highlights from the McMahon Fireworks Show
On the Day
For the true 4th of July, back at the RV Park, residents were excited to spend time together and with loved ones. Families were coming to enjoy the pool and good food.
Our neighbor, Jason, spent days talking about the brisket he had selected, and the night before the 4th, he began the chore of barbequeing three of them in the large fire-stoked grill near the park’s pool and lodge. Like tending to a newborn, he got up and trekked the park in a motorized cart several times through the night.
The next day, the park awoke to cloud coverage, a welcome respite from the relentless heat we’d been having. Brent welcomed the break from watering the grass throughout the park, a full-time task he’d taken on while the park owner is away.
Families arrived and Evelyn enjoyed the companionship of residents’ grandchildren with whom to play. Kids splashed in the pool and residents joined in the lodge, everyone bringing their own contribution to the feast.
We drank wine spritzers and downed jello shots and complimented each other on the food spread.
We returned to the pool while the air was still and thunder stayed at bay, but the skies were looking darker and when thunder rumbled in the distance, the pool was cleared out. Grandkids and visitors packed up to get out ahead of the storm, leaving residents milling about the lodge picking at the food that had already been covered and packed. We graduated from wine spritzers to cocktails and beers and were soon joined around the tables playing Fast Track and Uno.
The weather darkened more outside the glass doors and before we knew it, the wind was pushing small trees and shrubbery over sideways and huge balls of rain smacked the side windows of the lodge without any transition from the hot, still air we’d had all afternoon.
“The awnings!” Several of us jumped to action and ran toward our trailers. This is where having great neighbors comes in. Lonnie returned to his trailer to find two neighbors holding his awning from flying over the top of his trailer. Smattered in rain and holding strong in the wind, those neighbors didn’t hesitate to jump in!
Rain-soaked and with new tales to tell, we sought shelter again in the lodge, where we refreshed our drinks and gathered on the porch. Soon, we fired up a Bluetooth speaker and had music to amplify our fun. As the night and rain pressed on, we laughed, danced, and shared stories.
Through it all, we may or may not have seriously shocked a grown country boy by not only revealing we are vegetarian, but that we had no idea what brisket is.
The rain eventually ended, and so did the party. The lodge was cleaned and cleared of any signs of celebration, and we returned to our trailers with new memories to keep and new laugh lines to show for it.
Highlights from the 4th of July at Lake Falling Star
And so, that picture I long had in my head of the small-town, casual but spirited 4th of July was no longer just an idyllic fantasy. It became real—it always was real—and it’s been alive and well every year in small towns like McMahon, Texas. It took living in a trailer and living the rural town life alongside hard-working small-town Americans to find that patriotism I’d been craving.
It wasn’t the biggest 4th of July extravaganza I’d ever experienced, but it was by far the best.