Devil’s Hill at the beach

Devil’s Hill was an integral part of every 4th of July growing up. It was the massive hill that reigned above a part of the lakefront at home. It was also only a short walk away from my grandparent’s house. Like so many Sundays, 4th of July was another day my entire family would gather at the cream and blue house with the front porch swing. As dusk neared, we knew it was time to make the pilgrimage to Devil’s Hill. Blankets and snacks and glow sticks in hand. Parents in tow. We would skip our way to the top of the hill and lay claim to any area of grass not already covered in blankets and children eagerly awaiting the show that was about to start. We would roll ourselves down the bottom half of the massive hill where the incline was too steep for blankets but not for grass stains and watching the world whirl by for the 8 seconds it took to get to the bottom.

As night fell and the first firework was inevitable, we would all Tetris ourselves onto the blankets and gaze over the lakefront. Our world paused so we could soak in all the ooh’s and aah’s and shrieks of glee as the sky was splashed with a plethora of colors and booms and sizzles. After the last firework crackled and the cloud of smoke dissipated, we would revel in our favorite fireworks while we gathered all our blankets and weaved our way through the throngs of cars trying to make their way home. We loved being able to bypass all the traffic and make our way through the all too familiar neighborhoods back to that front porch swing.

Every time we took that last corner and it came into view, my grandparents would come into view. Rocking together on that swing, waiting to be inundated with stories from many grandkids all at once. And when our stories ran dry, all the nearby neighbors made their way home and the night sky lit up with the occasional firework from those nearby daring enough to buy their own, we would turn our attention the next item on our to do list. Playing ghost in the graveyard or some other game we could revel in until parents called for the last round to be closed out. So we would say our goodbyes and receive our “secret” from my grandpa (I love you. It was always I love you.) and make our way, with tired eyes, back home.

Growing up, the gravity of those moments are not clear. That’s because you’re in the moment. Creating memories that unbeknownst to you, will be the foundation for so much, in so many incredible ways. This year for me was a big call back to those 4th of July days.

Cape Cod has been a part of my husband’s life for many years. For him, the Cape holds decades of memories and we’ve been lucky enough to start creating memories as a family these last few years. The 4th of July is always a big one and as our boys get older, it gets even more exciting. The excitement from them is contagious. Fireworks. Matching outfits with cousins. Sugar. More sugar. Somehow more sugar. Who keeps bringing the sugar? It’s me. It’s definitely my fault. Glow sticks. Sparklers. Red, white and blue from here to next week. Boat rides. The beach. A week down the Cape always ends up full of incredible moments together. Ones I certainly hold in a different regard than our boys do right now. But they are in the moment. Making those memories and creating traditions they will remember (hopefully fondly) decades from now. Now in my 40’s, I get the incredible joy of helping them create those moments and watch the magic through their little eyes. That, more than anything is what this year did for me.

As dusk fades and the excitement hits a crescendo, we all find that perfect vantage point from the beach. Chairs, blankets or just sitting in the sand. All are somehow perfect in their own way. As I nestled myself into the sand and wrapped an arm around my oldest’s chair, the show began. Their glee in calling out their favorite colors or shapes to fireworks makes it all that more exciting to witness. Watching their eyes light up and seeing the magic in this moment literally brought me to tears this year. I do not know if it’s because they are at an age, where they can participate in the fireworks more or just the sheer joy plastered on their faces. Or that they were together with cousins, aunts, uncles, a Pops and a YaYa.

I have a sneaking suspicion that it was because I had to say goodbye to my grandma earlier this year and the memory of our 4th of July’s will never be lost on me. But in these moments, my boys had their very own Devil’s Hill. And no it may not have been a giant hill to roll down or several blocks to walk to get there. It was however, games with cousins, light saber fights using giant glow sticks, Tetris-ing their chairs onto the sand, the ooh’s and aah’s of seeing their favorite kind of fireworks and a mom, tears silently streaming down her face, watching her kids find magic that night as each firework sizzled it’s way across the sky.