The red, white, and Blue Suede Shoes
“You remind me of the Fourth of July… makes me want a hot dog real bad.”
– Jennifer Coolidge in Legally Blonde 2, and me, basically every summer.
There’s something about the Fourth of July that just lights a firecracker in my soul. Maybe it’s the smell of grilled meat, the feeling of an explosion in your chest as colors fill the dark sky, or the sheer joy of watching someone try to relight a dud firework with a beer in hand like they are suddenly a demolition expert.
Now, let me be clear—Halloween is my favorite holiday (costumes, candy, chaos? Say less)—but the Fourth is high on the list. It’s got everything you need for a good time: sunshine, grilled food, and a socially acceptable excuse to eat seven hot dogs in one sitting.
The Fourth of July, of course, started as America’s breakout moment. July 4, 1776, was when the Founding Fathers declared, “You know what, Britain? We’re done,” and signed the Declaration of Independence. Cue the bald eagles. Cue the cannon fire. Cue, eventually, the entire aisle at Target dedicated to red, white and blue everything.
Over the years, the holiday has evolved from a revolutionary fervor to more of a national backyard gathering. And while I’m here for the fireworks and flag cupcakes, I do wish we could bring back some of the magic from when I was a kid.
When I was growing up, the Fourth of July meant one thing: Grand Coulee Dam.
Every summer while visiting my dad, we’d pile into the car and head out to what I still consider the Hall of Fame of fireworks displays.
We’d grill, laugh, melt ice cream faster than we could eat it, and drink icy pop from cans that had been sitting in a cooler longer than some marriages last. And then—oh, then-the main event. No, not the fireworks. The Elvis impersonator.
Yes, my dad somehow managed to convince me—year after year—that it was actually Elvis. I mean, sure, the sideburns were crooked and the “Jailhouse Rock” dance moves were more dad-at-a-wedding than Vegas residency, but I believed. And not just believed—I was convinced that Elvis was more real than the Easter Bunny.
To be that young, wide-eyed, and blissfully unaware that Elvis had, in fact, left the building in 1977—it was a gift.
As I’ve gotten older, the Fourth has changed. I still love it, maybe even more now, but in a different way. As a National Guard member and someone with friends currently deployed active duty overseas, I’ve come to see the day not only as fun, but also reflective. When I see our flag waving—our beautiful, bold, star-spangled banner—I feel something deep in my bones. Pride. Gratitude. A sense of duty and belonging. That flag means something. And the fireworks? They’re more than pretty—they’re symbolic of resilience, of freedom, of the price many have paid to keep that flag flying.
Still, the essence remains. I love the heat. I love the excuse to spend a whole day by the water, pretending I’m a beach bum. I love the sound of kids giggling while holding sparklers, the taste of grilled brats (again, cheddar and beer is the only acceptable answer), and pairing it all with a cold beer that tastes like summer.
And these days, one of the biggest highlights of the holiday is celebrating with my best friend in the whole world—my wiener dog, Winnie. We find a way to celebrate, whether it’s on a blanket at the park, soaking up the sun, or on the porch, watching the fireworks light up the sky together. She reminds me to slow down and enjoy it all.
This year, as I celebrate in a new county I now get to call home, I carry all those memories with me. I carry Grand Coulee Dam, I carry Elvis, I carry that little girl who believed in magic and meat products with her whole heart. And I carry my pup, proudly, like the true American icon she is.
So if you see me out on the Fourth, looking a little misty-eyed between bites of bratwurst, don’t worry—I’m just feeling thankful. And maybe channeling my inner Jennifer Coolidge. Because honestly…
I do want a hot dog (brat) real bad.