The Great American Scrapbook

Americans are loud. We’re big. We punch back, too hard sometimes. But we’re still one hell of a country. Here’s to the greatest love story ever told.

I leave before the fireworks begin, slipping out the front door of the busy golf-and-liquor emporium where 2,000 guests, high on smoked brisket and jellybean ice cream, await the annual patriotic show.

It will be a crush when it’s over, and I don’t like crushes as much as I used to. I pass a line of car valets. They have the eyes of men about to be executed.

They know that everyone will soon pour out all at once demanding their Rivians and their BMWs: some tipsy and happy, others tipsy and mean, all just wanting to get home.

Home. Is there a better word? Home. It’s almost musical.

Home, where the dog dances when you walk in. You flick on the kitchen lights. You collapse on the couch.

Home. Warm as Mom’s lasagna. Soothing as a barroom full of friends.