There is a scene in The Sandlot that I’ve always loved. The boys are playing baseball as fireworks explode overhead on the Fourth of July. The whole town seems to be outside. People are gathered on porches, kids are running through the neighborhood, and for a few minutes everything feels simple and good. I think that’s why that scene resonates with so many people. It reminds us of something. Maybe our childhood. Maybe our parents. Maybe a version of America that existed mostly in moments like that. In Eastern Kentucky, we had our own versions of those evenings. Somebody would fire up the grill, there’d be hamburgers and hot dogs on paper plates, sweet tea sweating in plastic cups, and kids running around until dark waiting on the fireworks. Nobody thought much about the cost because, for one evening at least, everybody seemed to have enough. Those simple celebrations reminded us of something bigger. They reminded us that, despite our struggles, we were fortunate enough to be Americans. There was pride in that. A quiet kind of gratitude. The Fourth of July wasn’t about extravagance. It was about family, community, and the simple blessing of having enough. I’ve been thinking about those memories lately because this year marks America’s 250th birthday. A quarter of a millennium. By any measure, it should feel monumental. It should be a once-in-a-generation celebration. Instead, everywhere I look, I sense a kind of weariness. A malaise. People are tired. They’re working hard and still falling behind. They’re carrying debts their parents never imagined carrying and making calculations previous generations never had to make. I came across several stories this week about Americans increasingly using buy-now-pay-later services for groceries and everyday necessities, and I couldn’t shake the thought that somewhere in this country, a family is making payments on their Fourth of July cookout. Hamburger meat. Hot dogs. Buns. There is something profoundly sad about that. Not because I blame the family. I don’t. Parents will do whatever they have to do to give their children one more good memory, one more evening under the fireworks, one more chance to feel like everything is okay. What troubles me is what that sentence says about us. I grew up believing there were certain things in America that were simply supposed to be attainable. A modest home. A little security. A backyard cookout with family and friends. Nothing extravagant. Just ordinary life. And maybe that’s the source of the malaise so many of us feel. Not that we’ve lost wealth or comfort, but that we’re slowly losing the ordinary things that once made us feel at home in our own country. Because when I watch that scene from The Sandlot, I don’t find myself longing for fireworks or baseball. I find myself longing for a country where a backyard cookout still feels simple. A country where parents don’t have to make payments on hamburger meat to create one good summer memory for their children. A country where ordinary life is still within reach of ordinary people. I don’t believe that country is gone. I think it’s waiting to be rebuilt. And if America’s 250th birthday means anything at all, perhaps that’s the work being asked of us. Not to recreate the past or pretend that everything used to be better, but to build a country where ordinary life is ordinary again, where a hamburger on the grill isn’t a luxury, and where the next generation can grow up believing that summer evenings, fireworks, and a backyard cookout are things that belong to everyone. Because what we had wasn’t just nostalgia. It was a blueprint. And I believe we can build from it again. ~CA OpEd: The preceding information does not necessarily reflect the views of Appalachia Insider as an organization. #AppalachiaInsider #Opinion #FourthOfJuly #AmericanLife #StewardshipEconomics #EasternKentucky