The morning of July 4th is so quiet around here, you might wonder if the entire subdivision entered the witness protection program.

But around 9, garage doors start rolling up. Bicycles, ride toys, wagons and strollers emerge as Operation Decoration begins. Red, white and blue streamers wrap handlebars, balloons are anchored to Big Wheels and patriotic pinwheels glimmer in the sun.

Neighbors who know each other, and don’t know each other, begin congregating a block down from the corner. Friendly greetings of, “hello, good morning, nice to see you, and how ya been?” fill the air. The political divides and acrimony that often pierce conversations these days are temporarily suspended.

A convertible led the parade last year, a pickup the year before. The parade commences and loops through the neighborhood as parents steering toddlers and babies in strollers gradually fall to the rear. After the last set of short, pudgy legs cross the finish line, our brood returns home. Whoever drew the short straw lights the charcoal.

I can still see my dad firing up the grill on the Fourth years ago. The ritual began with a small stand to hold utensils taking its place next to the grill. On the front of the stand was a yellow sign that read “Men at Work” in big black letters.

Forever a farm boy, Dad loved the summer heat. The only thing better than an outdoor temperature of 101 was 102 with his shirt off.

Mom would be bustling around inside, putting a dash of paprika on the potato salad and monitoring the baked beans. She worked culinary magic in a small kitchen with countertop space not much bigger than a placemat.

Meanwhile, back at the grill, having subdued flames shooting 10 feet into the air, came the sound of hisssss-crack-pop. Man at Work just opened a cold one. Tradition and hydration all in one.

Most of the cracking and popping around here will be from ball games in the backyard. The grands are growing bigger, swinging harder and sending balls flying faster and farther. The zinnias are nervous and so am I.

The flag will fly from the front porch. We used to hang it only on holidays, or when family members who are veterans came to visit, but when our son-in-law deployed to Iraq, we began flying Old Glory every day and never stopped. Those red and white stripes are sobering reminders of the sacrifice of hundreds of thousands throughout the years. Flying the flag is a small way of saying thanks.

Fireworks at a sprawling sports park in a burb to the north will finish the day. Traffic is always horrible, parking is terrible and when it’s all over the thick ominous cloud of smoke hanging low overhead may send us to an early grave, but oh what a show.

With any luck we’ll be home by 11:30, in bed by midnight and fall asleep grumbling about the fireworks still popping off all around us.

It’s good to be an American. Happy 250th!

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