Long long ago, in the land of Red White and Blue...

 Do you remember that one time when we came back to the country we had left two years earlier, only to find out it was celebrating it's birthday?

Only six days after we returned home we were greeted by this well-known American holiday.  At the risk of sounding like a real jerk, I've never been particularly Patriotic, nor have I ever considered my country's Independence Day to be one of my favorite holidays.  It's usually hot, and buggy, and right smack dab in the middle of my holidays.  However, there is something about living in another country, and all-so-often being identified as "An American" within seconds of every meeting, that makes you re-examine what building blocks you use to construct your identity.

 

Something I learned about myself is that I actually love the traditions that come from living in Middle America.  I love the county fair.  I love fresh strawberry pie in June.  I love plucking sweet cherries out of big bowls by the fistful in July.  And I love any excuse for a celebration and friendly parade. 

  

 And this celebration came at just the right time.  We lined the streets of our new small-town home with friends we've known for a lifetime, and their children that we've known since the day they were born.  We waved at tractors, and horses, and firetrucks, and their riders hung out of windows throwing handfuls of candy at us.  It was a far cry from the parades that were happening at the same time in a country we left behind.  The parades that are oftentimes rooted in hate and can sometimes result in violence.

At that moment I had never felt so far from Northern Ireland, nor so close to the culture I had always considered my home.