Preamble: The 1812 Overture

When I Loved My Country: Seeing the Fireworks in Boston on July 4th, 1995

It was July 4th, 1995. I was 12 years old and it was the only time my parents and I came close to the Boston Pops 4th of July concert on the Esplanade, an urban green space overlooking the Charles River. We’d celebrate our nation’s independence in the Cradle of Liberty, where Paul Revere ordered two lanterns lit before he rode off into the night, taking separate routes from fellow patriots William Dawes and Samuel Prescott to get the word out across the Massachusetts colony that the British were coming.

But my parents and I wouldn’t arrive at 6 a.m. when the gates opened and endure a full day of July heat among hundreds of thousands of people to get a front-and-center spot near the Hatch Shell, the outdoor concert venue located on the south bank of the Charles. We stood on a sidewalk across the river instead, on the Cambridge side of the Charles, near MIT. We could see the Hatch Shell’s backside and the light emanating from it, which lit part of the river. This is where members of the Boston Symphony Orchestra played each 4th. They were now led by a new, young conductor named Keith Lockhart, who wore a tux and had blue eyes and brown hair that bounced with the music as he waved his baton.

“I miss Arthur Fiedler,” Mum lamented. She was referring to the former Pops conductor who made the July 4th concert an annual tradition. Her father was a musician and she was always so particular when it came to music. She was also nostalgic for the old days for whatever reason. She wore a white blouse that looked like it had paint streaks on it tied with a nautical-looking rope in the front and blue jeans. She wore large, round glasses with red frames. Her hair was black with some grays, and her eyes were dark olive, like the polluted Charles she stood in front of.

I wore a beige t-shirt that had the word, “Peace” on it in earthy green. My outfit was complete with unflattering blue jean shorts that made me look boyish. At least I could wear a bra now, so my chest wouldn’t look so flat. My bangs weren’t styled and my brown hair was secured in a pony tail. I liked Keith Lockhart automatically because he was young and handsome. I had no idea who that Fiedler guy was.

We heard “The Stars and Stripes Forever” echo across the Charles River as we awaited the fireworks that would signal the concert’s completion. They’d launch from a barge that belonged to Dad’s marine construction company, J.M. Cashman, owned by two cantankerous brothers who fought for years until Dad was finally laid off. But that hadn’t happened yet, so Dad wore a green t-shirt with the Cashman logo that depicted a ship and a crane in white. His outfit was complete with khaki shorts and white New Balance sneakers that had green stains on them. He was tan due to the work he did, had a neat mustache, and short, curly brown hair. He slipped on his drugstore distance glasses and peered through binoculars to locate the Cashman barge, pointing it out to us when he found it.

“That’s where the fireworks will launch from,” he said.

Dad then set up our silver transistor radio so we could hear the concert on WBUR. “The Stars and Stripes Forever” was wrapping up. We heard folks clapping along with it. At its crescendo, a large American flag would unfurl above the stage as the crowd gasped. Then came the sing-along portion of the concert, where the crowd belted out Americana favorites like “Yankee Doodle” and “God Bless America.” I thought it was lame when I watched it on WGBH each year, but people dug it, interlocking arms and doing can-can kicks for the TV cameras. When “God Bless America” ended, the annual hush fell over the crowd. We all knew what came next.

Dad adjusted the dial to make sure we had the clearest reception possible for The “1812 Overture,” which we often referred to as The 1812, so familiar were we with it, like an old friend that visited us each year.