2026 marks America’s 250 birthday and the signing of The Declaration of Independence in 1776. Many of us remember our country’s bicentennial in 1976, an exciting time of Tall Ships, parades and much pomp and circumstance. In Bristol, we have a robust 250 Commission assigned with the task of creating our own celebrations and we are hoping to involve the entire community, with a weekly feature called 250 Words of Joy. The task is to ask yourself, What gives you joy?….and to write 250 words to be featured in the paper. The Phoenix will feature one per week. We are looking for all age groups to tap into their creativity and write an essay, micro short story, poem, or reflections. Please send submissions to cnadalin@eastbaymediagroup.com.

It is 1958 and I’m ten years old standing alongside my brother Arthur, both dressed in Cub Scout blue, both standing at stiff attention, thumbs alongside pants seams, shoulders impossibly thrust back toy soldier-like. My five year old brother Mark, too young for “Cubs”, but now, regretfully no longer among the living despite his comparative youth, stands with that ever present mischievous grin, trailing an American flag on a stick. We three are flanked by parents Arthur and Marie. He a veteran of WWII and Korea and she a beautiful young mother of Azorean descent. The pride that emanates is palpable. A handsome collie named Lad completes the picture. It is black and white, taken, I’m sure, with an old Brownie box camera. It locks the six of us in space and time. It is a slice of Americana that no longer exists. In the wake of the unspeakable horror that was WWII and Korea, it is a calm respite nestled nicely between those wars and Vietnam which, in a few short years, will ultimately consume and overwhelm me.

It is Bristol, Rhode Island, and it is the Fourth of July, of this there is no doubt. Like every other physically-able Bristolian, we are making preparations for participating in the the community’s most significant holiday: the Fourth of July. Dad, Arthur H. Manchester, Jr., at the behest of Mrs. Theresa Donovan, Bristol’s eminent long-time music teacher, will sing the national anthem on the steps of the Colt Memorial High School. He will do this, not as a chore but as an honor bestowed upon him by tradition. His two older boys will take their places, dressed in Cub Scout blue within the ranks of scouts assembling at Guiteras Field on Washington Street where in a few years I will, with my teammates dressed on football green and white proudly represent good ol’ Colt Memorial.

But for now, speeches have to be made, a parade has to be marched, a greasy pole climbed, a carnival enjoyed, watermelon, hot dogs and chourico and peppers consumed, and, ultimately, a fireworks display has to end the day for another year. That was it. As simple as that. Perhaps less hoopla, a shorter parade, but no less patriotic spirit; and certainly, no less enjoyment to be savored.

I have spent years with children precariously balanced on shoulders, sharing with them the exuberance of my youth, exploring a small town tradition that endures despite its, at times, present bloated state and exaggerated patriotic mien.

Time has faded that old black and white photo. And although I do not participate as I once did, I know that Bristol cannot return to that simple, small town blue collar tradition devoid of gentrification. But I take joy in its resilient, consistent celebration of past traditions. Happy 250th all!

- Jim Manchester