When I was a kid, my family would make the trek out into the woods of Arkansas every July 4th, way out past city plumbing and stoplights, to my great uncle and aunt’s farm. We would set off fireworks and eat homemade peach ice cream. I even distinctly remember my second cousins having a cannon they would fire every few hours. It was peaceful, loving chaos, and a little bit dangerous. Those summer celebrations slowly fizzled out, and by the time I was a teenager, they were more or less memory, if not legend.

Three years ago, my parents planted two peach trees on their new farm property, about an hour from where I live.

We had company over the fourth, my husband’s mother and grandmother. We also celebrated our littlest girl’s second birthday on the 3rd with a nearby city’s firework show. On Thursday, however, the actual holiday, we made the drive out to my parent’s farm. My husband and I bought the fireworks. My in-laws made traditional New Mexican cookies to bring. My mom and dad picked buckets of homegrown peaches and slow churned them into ice cream. And the tradition began again, spanning in-laws and another generation.

That night, much later than usual, as I tucked a daughter into bed, she sleepily told me that she had the best day ever. “Me too.” I said, as I kissed her forehead. Me too.