A reflection on community, memory, and what I hope to pass on

This year, we didn’t go big for the Fourth.

No matching outfits, no elaborate party spreads — just a simple afternoon with a few friends, a dip in the pool, and a plan to bring my lemon bars and a rainbow fruit board to the neighborhood block party the next day.

But somewhere between rinsing the blueberries and arranging the strawberries just right… something happened.

I started remembering.

I remembered the summers of my childhood. The ones where we didn’t have to leave the neighborhood to feel like we were part of something special.

Every Fourth of July, we’d gather across the street at Ms. Flo’s house — the kind of house where the backyard unfolded into a park and a lake. It felt like a movie set, but it was just… home.

There’d be a pig roasting. Potato salad piled high. Frankie Beverly and Maze playing in the background and kids running wild, sticky with popsicle juice and joy. And when the sun went down, Ms. Flo’s sons — who had come up from the South just for the week — would line the edge of the lake and light up the sky with fireworks more magical than anything I’ve seen since.

One time, someone’s wig even caught on fire. It was wild. You had to be there 😂

But the lake? That lake was always there. Still. Quiet. Watching it all happen.

It wasn’t just scenery — it was part of the memory. The backdrop to every sparkler, every song, every laugh that echoed through that July air. I didn’t know until now just how much that lake shaped me — and how deeply I’ve carried that place in me.

I found this photo recently, and it stopped me in my tracks.
This is the lake.
The place where I learned what it meant to feel safe, seen, and surrounded.

That was my introduction to community.
This was where I fell in love with the idea of knowing your neighbors. Of leaning on them. Of celebrating not just the holiday, but each other.

And now, years later, I find myself trying to create that same feeling for my son.

Not the same party. Not the same setting. But the same feeling.
That sense of ease. Of belonging. Of childhood joy rooted in something real.

Because sometimes, when you're building your dream life, you don’t even realize you’re carrying pieces of your past into your present. You just think you’re prepping fruit for a party. And then suddenly, your memory hands you a reminder:
Your parents did this for you.
And now you’re doing it for him.

That’s the dream, really.
Not just building something new — but honoring something old.
Not just having a beautiful life — but making sure your child feels safe in their imagination, in their home, in their community.

So thank you to my mom and dad, for raising us in a place where joy lived on every corner.
Where I was free to imagine, to explore, to feel magic right outside our front door.
Thank you for showing me what real community looks like — and for giving me the blueprint to quietly carry it forward.

The rainbow board turned out beautiful.
The lemon bars were devoured before sunset.
And my son got to be part of something that felt just like magic — even if he doesn’t fully know it yet.

Someday he will.
And when he does, I hope he remembers the feeling.

Because legacy doesn’t always look like a grand gesture.
Sometimes, it’s just a plate of lemon bars.
A rainbow of fruit.
And the quiet joy of showing up for each other.

With Love,
Ambyr

A Lake, A Legacy, and a Board Full of Love

This year, we didn’t go big for the Fourth.

It wasn’t just scenery — it was part of the memory. The backdrop to every sparkler, every song, every laugh that echoed through that July air. I didn’t know until now just how much that lake shaped me — and how deeply I’ve carried that place in me.

When Life Hands You Lemons…Add Butter