The Fifth of July

As Americans, we have associated many things with our Independence Day, the 4th of July. You’ve got the backdoor barbeques and poolside picnics. Then there’s the downtown parades that invoke a patriotic savvy as well as a contempt for parade route detours. There are fireworks that light up the night sky, and premature fireworks that have little effect on a mid-afternoon sky. Baseball is the game of the day, and nobody works. Nobody. It’s our own little nationalistic Sabbath. But why?

When you grow up outside Philadelphia, you tend to receive a jaded view of the American history towards independence, freedom, and liberty. The events surrounding our break away from England that took place in the City of Brotherly Love take impressive prominence in the history textbooks of schools in the Philly region. I can’t assume that this is unique – surely those in Massachusetts study the Boston Massacre and Tea Party more that is proportionally feasible, and I think those in Delaware probably studied when the British got new Redcoats with tax-free shopping in Dover.

As a Phillyphile, the 4th of July means a lot.

After all, it was downtown where the Declaration of Independence was signed, shortly after the clock struck 11 pm on the night of the 4th. Thomas Jefferson, John Hancock, Benjamin Franklin, and friends capped off a long night of debate and wearing silly pants by signing the most famous document ever to be declared. Truly, for each member of Congress, this date not only would mean future days off (assuming once the federal government was erected they would grant this.), but mark the highpoint in their political careers.

So what do you do for an encore?

Seriously, you’ve just taken part in the creation of a document that proclaims that you don’t need England anymore. Where do you go from here? Certainly, in due time, there will be governmental positions to fill (assuming you make some with a Constitution of sorts). But what about tomorrow? What about the 5th of July?

It’s like the rush of winning the Super Bowl. One day, you’ve played the game of your lives that will permanently etch your name in the history books. You can relive those moments over and over in your head, but when you wake up the next morning, there’s no more football to be played. That all happened yesterday. You’ve got time to kill until the first mini-camp. And all you have is memories of how awesome you were yesterday.

That’s the dilemma the signers of the Declaration of Independence faced when they put down their quills just before midnight. With the exception of maybe a bar tab, there will be no more signing for quite sometime. And if there is, it will seem largely inferior to the signing you did on the 4th. So what does a separatist patriot do for an encore?

Well, the night was still young, and like the Super Bowl, you don’t go to sleep right after you take off your uniform. Our guess is that Congress probably got wasted. After all, this was a cause for celebration! Certainly a saloon or ale house in downtown Philly is still open with a pint with George Wythe’s name on it, right?

Well, there’s your answer. After a long night of comparing quill sizes, streaking Eakin’s Oval (where "streakin" came from), and accidentally driving one’s carriage drunk into Independence Hall (now you know where that Liberty Bell crack came from.) The Declaration of Independence was read aloud for the first time not on the 5th of July, but the 8th of July.

In the words of John Adams, “that’s a wicked hang-ovah…”