Jacqueline Cohen
Fourth of July was always spent with cotton candy in one hand and a rainbow popsicle dripping in the other. All the neighborhood kids would sit lined up on the sidewalk—having walked from their respective midday barbecues—and watch as the parade processional approached. Every single time, I would enjoy my popsicle and silently wish, like all the kids, for the parade to be over so we could escape the blistering heat. Cheering on the honorary mayor, firemen, and local high school band was much less exciting than the trampoline games that would inevitably follow.
My Sundays were equally predictable. In the mornings, my mom, brothers, and I would embark on the thirty-minute walk to the local farmers' market. Though the market changed locations many times, we never failed to bring home the warmest tomato-rice soup and the somehow delicious vegan, gluten-free chocolate chip cookies. Part of this routine included randomly running into people every single week: friends and loose acquaintances, the rabbis at my temple, the teachers at my school, and even people I didn’t know but greeted as if I did. Then, for lunch, we would go to Café Vida, where I’d order the cheesy wheel pasta without chicken and broccoli on the side. I was on a first-name basis with all the waiters there and would always share way too much with Adam and Tony about my week.
Growing up in a picturesque community, I learned the most important moments were those filled with substance. I don’t miss those Fourths of July because of the beautiful town décor; I miss them because, in those moments, I was connected to every other kid in their American flag shirt lined up down the block. When I look back on my Sundays, I think fondly of the routine, but I mainly remember the conversations I’d randomly have, like one with my T-ball coach, who, years later, remembered a fabulous catch of mine. What made my childhood town the ideal place to grow up was not the movie-like setting but the community within it. There’s something special about knowing that wherever I went, I would run into someone who knew and supported me. Even more, it meant everything to know that people could come to me if they needed something.
The town I grew up in was more than just a physical place. Everywhere felt like home, and everyone felt like family. The Palisades will always remain in my heart and remind me that wherever I go, I have no choice but to exude love and warmth—just like my home would, if it could.
