When I think of the July Fourths of my childhood, one stands out in particular. We had spent the weekend at a large family reunion in Cascade, Idaho, where my cousins and I biked along the lake, played chess, and created a makeshift parade with flags duct-taped to our hats. During mealtimes, the mothers, aunts, grandmothers, and great-aunts brought out of pasta salad, baked beans, casseroles, and all those other lovely northwestern comfort foods. We would load up our paper plates, sit around picnic tables, and listen to my great-grandfather, his sister, and brothers—all nearing or in their 90s—swap stories about the old days.

The night before the Fourth, my sister, cousin, and I travelled home with my grandparents. We spent the next morning helping them unpack supplies from their camper, and then Grandma fed us in a splendid fashion. That night, we watched fireworks from the fields next to their house: fields that led up to a steep cliff, overlooking the valley beyond. I was cold, so Grandma gave me her red jacket. Like any splendid grandmother, she wore seasonal clothing with aplomb. This unbelievably soft jacket had a bejeweled flag pinned to the left shoulder.

I’ve often wondered why that Independence Day stands out so strongly in my memory. Perhaps it’s because it embodies many of the things I love and feel devotion for: strong family ties, rich heritage and history, distinctive local food cultures, bright aesthetic displays of devotion.

In recent years, my Fourth of July has looked quite different. There were some college summers spent at Nationals baseball games in D.C., grabbing food in Georgetown and watching fireworks on the Potomac. Post-marriage, I joined a new clan, and began to acclimate to their Independence Day culture: there were less casseroles and more salads, but the close family dynamic remained.

What I’ve missed most on the east coast, perhaps, is that rich tapestry of inter-generational history and context that gives permanence and meaning to one’s celebration. Washington’s Fourth of July revelers are a less rooted bunch—many of them interns and recent college graduates, who scan the homepages of the Washington Post and Washingtonian for the best hole-in-the-wall restaurants and rooftop bars from which to watch fireworks and drink booze. They have no family get-togethers to attend. Even my husband’s close-knit family members are immigrants to this area, originally from the midwest.

Yet there is an aura to Washington’s Fourth that is distinctive and interesting: it involves a sense of intellectual camaraderie and depth that is very different from the Independence Days of my past. These days, I am better versed in Tocqueville and the Federalist Papers. I’ve visited monuments and written extensively on American politics; I’ve met congressmen and attended countless policy panels. These all give me an interesting tapestry of intellectual and political distinctiveness through which to view July 4th. They even give me a slight sense of kinship with the various interns, politicians, and think tankers scattered throughout Washington.

But I’m also learning that a little bit of homesickness is almost a necessary piece of Independence Day, as we grow older. It reminds us where we’re from: of the local ties that bind us, the fond remembrances that truly encapsulate our American experience. Without that sense of loss and homesickness, we wouldn’t understand fully what it means to love a place and its people.

So this year, as I gather to eat with new family and watch fireworks with old college friends, I’ll also be thinking of Grandma and her soft red jacket—of watching fireworks burst bright colors across the shadows of Idaho fields, and the sweet tapestry of family and history that brought me to this new place.