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Fireworks, check. Romance, check. Morven Park, chic.

Morven Park is laden with romance. Which genre would you prefer?

Is it just me, or does our nation crave and admire explosions that create light, color, and noise?

Independence Day celebrations were proposed by John Adams in a letter to his wife, Abigail, written July 3, 1776. What he called “illuminations” we now know as fireworks. Looking back, they were multi-media displays even then.

But they do bring on an annual dilemma: where shall we go to watch them on July 4? The Mall in Washington is the fountainhead of patriotism but also of traffic congestion. Good vantage points must be staked out early and defended despite intervening rainstorms.

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The suburbs offer convenience at the expense of grandeur and suggest a third option, “Indecision is a decision.” Declare it a bye year, fire up the grill, stay home, and watch "A Capitol Fourth" on PBS.  There is work the next morning.

Welcome, then, was ’s recent announcement. For a modest price, the staff would rebrand and simplify Independence Day. Yes, there would be fireworks, but at a polite distance. And there would also be romance!

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This was news was embraced by childfree couples and those whose grown children prefer the Mall. Morven Park declared it a fundraiser, brought in a caterer, put up tents, and invited guests to pay $50 per person for "heavy" hors d'oeuvres and two alcoholic drinks. That's $12.50 per person per hour for four hours. On the Fourth of July, it’s a deal worth risking a thunderstorm.

Couples came. They did not pack picnic baskets. Their two drink tickets gave unlimited access to shrimp, potato-leek salad, grilled flank steak, many cheeses, and rice pudding with blackberry compote.

There were no dogs and no kids.

Morven Park’s oceanous front lawn affords a sweeping view of the horizon to the east and unrestricted privacy. In the gloaming, other people could hear threads of conversation. But they could not identify the source. A man on a cell phone could set up a business meeting with an admiral for next week, and no one would know which one. Besides, who was listening? Not the lightning bugs. Not the bullfrogs. Not the lovers. No one.

Romance? Morven Park is steeped in romance. The 17th Mississippi Regiment camped here during the first winter of the Civil War. The previous owners, Marguerite and Westmoreland Davis, never had children but knew well the romance of war. Former Virginia Gov. Davis wrote letters of condolence to every Virginia family whose numbers were diminished by World War I; more than 6,000 of them.

Diffused by clouds and softened by rain, twilight lingered. Couples huddled closer under umbrellas or sat on the broad expanse of the front portico.

Just after 9 p.m., puffs of smoke began to appear; then bursts shaped like chrysanthemums, comets, and peonies. These are all terms for “illuminations” caused by the combustion of metal salts such as calcium chloride and sodium nitrate. From the vantage point of the Davis mansion, bursts appeared all along the horizon to the east. One might be Ashburn Village, another the Trump golf club in Countryside. Beyond those were Great Falls and Lake Fairfax.

The thumps that released their sudden energy—the tiny sonic booms that release adrenalin in mammals and quicken the pulse—were muffled. Is this what the boys from Mississippi heard when the Battle of Dranesville unfolded on Dec. 20, 1861?

By 9:15, darkness had disembodied the voices. An authoritative male announced that word had come from Ida Lee Park next door.

The “illuminations” would commence at 9:30. Romantic sounds blended across the lawn: a couple kissed, Frank Sinatra crooned, one lone sparkler sizzled.

Then came a boom came from Ida Lee, followed by an appreciative and collective “ooooh!” The sounds were both near and far enough. There were spinners, crossettes, strobes, and glitter: red surrounding blue strobes and red strobes surrounded by blue. Brocades and willows. Silver fish and, wait; smiley faces? Yes!  There were smatterings of polite applause.

Across the lawn, cell phones were held up and recording. These illuminations would be well documented.

The sounds associated with fireworks vary. Some “swoosh” and then “kapow.” Some whine, then “rat-a-tat” machine-gun style. The boys from the 17th Mississippi could have catalogued these sounds:

“The energy absorbed by an atom rearranges its electrons from their lowest-energy state, called the ground state, up to a higher-energy state, called an excited state.”

Owing perhaps in part to this science, a young man on the lawn at Morven Park in 2011 leaned toward his mother, who was seated on the other side of an apparent girlfriend, who feigned nonchalance.

Under cover of thumps, booms, and darkness, he said, “Mom, we’re not sure where. We’re not sure when. [Girlfriend] and I have been talking about getting married a little bit.”

The charm of his misplaced modifier dissolved as quickly as the overhead bursts. If he meant to say, “married a lot,” Mom saw it coming. This night was a wrap: fireworks, check. Romance, check.

But wait. What was that? In the sky above Ida Lee Park? Yes! A flaming red heart, exploding from strontium salts and lithium carbonate! Encircled in burning magnesium! Then another! And a third!

Somewhere above the illuminations at Ida Lee Park, the lads of the 17th Mississippi stomped and cheered, and the Davises clinked glasses with Abigail and John Adams as he repeated his letter to Abigail, circa 1776:

“You will think me transported with Enthusiasm but I am not … through all the Gloom I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory.”

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