As a child, I have few memories associated with Independence Day.

There’s a reason for this: When you are growing up on a 900-acre farm in southcentral Ohio, you do not waste a beautiful, midsummer day to go on a picnic, take in a parade or watch fireworks.

Early July meant that it was time to harvest the winter wheat (so named because it is planted in the fall). So instead of joining others in singing about the “amber waves of grain,” we were busy from dawn to dusk harvesting it. All I needed to do was look around and I could see all the golden grains of wheat I wanted.

I think wheat is one of those things that seem a lot better in one’s memory or from a distance than up close and personal. It loses much of it’s appeal — and beauty — when one is buried knee deep in it.

Dad always grew a hundred aces or so of wheat. Once it had been harvested, we baled the stalks the combine had sheared close to the ground into bales of straw. Since a bale of straw is about 20 or 30 pounds lighter than a bale of hay and I was a kid who was big for my age, I was able to handle the straw bales by the time I was 11 years old. I was 13 or 14 before I was strong enough to load rectangular bales of hay onto the wagon.

Thus, while I still was in grade school, I was loading bales of straw, and more often than not, that is how I spent Independence Day. Others may have celebrated the holiday, but to the Cannon family, it was just another work day.

My sisters and I would beg Dad to take us into Washington Court House to see the fireworks. After all, by the time of the fireworks, the work on the farm was over for the day. What harm could there be in driving into town just to enjoy a little bit of the holiday the way John Adams thought we should?

But it was not to be. Dad said it was a waste of gasoline to drive that far just to see some silly fireworks — and this was when gas was less than 30 cents a gallon! Besides, Dad said we could see the fireworks just fine by sitting in our front yard and looking skyward toward the fairgrounds.

What a crock! Our farm was more than 12 miles from Washington Court House and watching fireworks from that distance was about as inspiring as watching the fireflies light up our yard. I was an adult before I ever saw a real fireworks show.

As I said, I have few childhood memories surrounding Independence Day, but few is not the same as none. The year 1960 was the sesquicentennial of Fayette County, Ohio, where I was born and raised, and the county threw a big birthday party at the fairgrounds. Even Dad — the hardest working man I have ever known — left the fields long enough to join in the celebration.

Like many other men in the county, Dad grew a beard that summer. It was the only time he had facial hair, and by the day of the big party, Dad had a nice growth of chin whiskers. No sideburns or mustache, just chin whiskers.

There was a contest for most original costume that year, and Dad convinced Mom to spray dye his whiskers red, white and blue. Mom, who dismissed most activities like this as just plain silly, really got into it, and by the time she finished working on his beard, it looked like he was wearing Old Glory on his chin.

Dad didn’t win the contest, and once it had ended, the beard he had been growing for months disappeared in minutes. Dad went back to doing what he had always done: Working long days in the fields while seldom cracking a smile or telling a joke. But for one brief moment, I saw a different side of Dad, and I still cherish that glimpse.

Come to think of it, it must be about time for Fayette County to celebrate its bicentennial. But Dad has been dead for almost 17 years now, and Fayette County is where I am from, not where I live. I guess they will have to celebrate without the Cannon family — or at least my branch of it.

JOHN CANNON can be reached at jcannon@dailyindependent.com or (606) 326-2649.