Way back in the dark ages, when I was a child in Bath, I have memory of the most exciting times when it seemed like we celebrated our limited holidays with great enthusiasm. The most minor events throughout the year were cause to celebrate. And we did.

Memorial Day was, back then, a biggie. The parade always marched down North Street, I think south on Washington to Centre and Front.

I’m not really sure because we always went to the home of friends on North Street. They might have marched on High Street to pay homage at the memorial by the court house, then on down Centre.

My childhood included World War II, a time when the country was about pride and honor. The patriot who lived in all of us was on display, especially in us kids, even if we didn’t quite fully understand the gravity of it all.

It was Memorial Day and we were having a parade to honor those who gave their lives for the country. We understood the reason but the excitement was the parade.

We would even dress up a little special, but the most important possession we had was our very own American flag to wave in the air as we waited ever so patiently for the parade to pass.

The wait was long and the kids waiting in the area would race around, sometimes using their flag poles as swords, dueling until a concerned parent stopped the play, fearing someone might lose an eye from the pointed end of the flag.

At last we could hear the band music coming along the street and everyone crowded to the edges of the sidewalk.

A well known gentleman was the drum major leading the band. He was impressive all dressed up in his drum major regalia. The costume was colorful and shiny from his boots to his epaulets and included his magnificent tall hat fancied up with a huge plume standing tall on the front.

He pranced down the middle of the street, knees lifted high, sometimes kicking his legs up in front and twirling around. His arms would swing high and wide and the baton in his hands did amazing things, all in time to the beat of the music.

When the Bath Iron Works band arrived, my heart swelled with pride. My dad was marching with the band, playing his saxophone. To have my dad in the band seemed very special to me. After all, none of my friends’ dads were in the parade and my dad was.

My brother and I waved our flags wildly, hoping Daddy would notice us. I think he probably did.

The rest of the parade passed quickly with the usual complement of high school band, Boy and Girl Scouts, small military units, police and fire engines with sirens screaming.

Those were wonderful days and the parade in the eyes of the children was magnificent.

The Fourth of July, in those days in Bath, was celebrated with far less fanfare than what we experience today with our Heritage Days. Back then, families created their own celebrations.

In my family, my brother and I were up early, eager to start the day setting off our own collections of fireworks. They were legal then.

Every neighborhood resounded with mini-explosions as kids all over town lit their stash of firecrackers and small bombs while parents shared bloody stories of what happens to kids who weren’t careful. What fun as we all tried to impress each other with our creative explosions and bravery.

In the late morning, we went to my grandparents (Dad’s family) cottage on the New Meadows River for a lobster bake with relatives from out of town. All afternoon, we visited, swam and boated, our appetites appeased following a delicious meal.

That evening Mom’s family gathered at my other grandparents home near the Kennebec River for our own fireworks display. The family chipped in to buy the rockets and flares that shot colorful, bright and noisy displays over the water.

We were thrilled and a little scared to be allowed to hold our own Roman Candles in our hands as balls of fire popped out one at a time and exploded high in the air.

It was the end of a perfect day. As simple as it was during those innocent times, memories were created that are never forgotten. Warm thoughts of how it use to be are cherished and linger with us all the rest of our lives.

JUDY ROUILLARD lives in Bath.