For many of us the Fourth of July means barbecue -- hot, beer -- cold and fireworks to mark the birth of a nation.

Let me tell you about a Fourth when I learned how much more it means.

On a warm evening about thirty years ago we watched fireworks from the balcony of my father's office on the East River. As the sound of the explosions bounced off the skyscrapers around us like thunder a broad, strong looking man stepped inside the office and stood in the corner his face almost paralyzed with anxiety.

I summoned my father and we went to him. The man quietly explained that the sound of rockets being shot into the air followed by the flash of lights and color and deafening noise returned him to the fields of Vietnam where he served as United States Army Ranger. 

My father put his hand on his shoulder and agreed that the fireworks reminded him too of the mortar fire he experienced and the loves lost as a Marine at Iwo Jima. Within a few minutes his wife and many of the partygoers returned inside knowing that someone was not feeling well and gathered in quiet support.