By THAD HUMPHRIES

By THAD HUMPHRIES

Kupritwaocfc News CmUbiling Writer

This is Part I of a two-part story on what independence should mean to each of us-, Part II will be published in next week ’s edition of the Rappahannock News.

It is a warm summer evening on a glorious Fourth of July. My wife and I are seated on the grassy lawn of a beautiful house watching our children playing with their friends and dozens of new acquaintances from the hundreds of families who have also come for the show. We’ve had a grand day bicycling through the northern Virginia countryside and now we await the fireworks. Washington always puts on a good show and everyone is anxious for night to fall.

But this is not Washington, D.C. No National Symphony Orchestra, no 3rd U.S. Infantry howitzers to fire for the 1812 Overture. This is Washington, Va. a.k.a. “Little Washington,” set along the Blue Ridge Mountains some 90 minutes from the capital. It was surveyed by George as a young man long before the Revolutionary War, when most of the land of northern Virginia belonged to Lord Fairfax. The future father of our country needed money. He had his eyes on the lord’s daughter and family like that was not entered cheaply.

Here in Little Washington, the music is provided by a local bluegrass band that plays for a mostly local crowd. Judging from the county stickers on cars parked along every road and in every field, few people traveled more than 30 minutes to see this show. But like the big show on the Mall, Little Washington’s show is free. The difference is that while the taxpayers foots the bill for the Capital’s show, ours comes courtesy of Mr. Carrigan, who, I am told, has for many years shared his celebration of our nation’s birthday with the community. He does not seem to mind the mess they make of his front yard.

Just before nightfall, before the minister give the invocation, before The Star Spangled Banner is sung, and before the first rocket fire, Mr. Carrigan always welcomes the crowd. He traditionally does this from the platform where the bluegrass band plays. He walks from his front porch, down the long grassy hill, down to the lake and up the small bandstand. He leans to a microphone and welcomes us with a few rods about the significance of the holiday. One year he reminded us that, since this was his land and his fireworks, he could openly thank God for our nation and our freedoms and allow a moment of prayer without fear of lawsuit. After the prayer, he joins us in our national anthem and returns to his porch to sit with his family while rockets’ red glare lights up the sky and the faces of the crowd.

But this year, Mr. Carrigan does not speak from the bandstand. Obviously getting on in years, he does not Seem, from our seat near his porch, to be able to negotiate neither the hill nor the platform. A microphone is set up on fee picnic table on his front porch and, at the appropriate moment, he weakly rises to speak. I Then something goes wrong. Somewhere in those 100odd yards of wiring between the porch and the bandstand, something has become disconnected. Lost in his love of country and pride in community, he continues on, apparently unaware of die problem, though his words are lost to

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