Semi-Whaaa? Or: America’s 250th Birthday is Almost Two Months Away…and I’m Not Excited About It

Sunday, April 26, 2026, Orlando, Florida

It’s a sultry spring afternoon in Central Florida, the kind that makes you wonder if the air conditioner is working hard or hardly working. As I write, the sun’s out in full force, the temperature hovering at a balmy 83°F (29°C)—so bright and cheery that even the lizards seem to be squinting. Humidity sits at 55%, the wind carries a gentle suggestion of movement from the west-southwest at 11 MPH (17 Km/H), and the feels-like temperature is a toasty 88°F (31°C). Today’s forecast: partly sunny skies, with a high temp that’ll have Floridians reaching for their iced tea and tourists marveling at how quickly sunscreen runs out.

As April gets ready to pass the baton to May, I’m struck by the fact that we’re nearly two months away from America’s Semiquincentennial—and yet, the anticipation feels about as lively as a deflated parade balloon. Surely, somewhere out there, a niche group of enthusiasts is counting down to the 250^th Anniversary of Congress adopting the Declaration of Independence, but I couldn’t name a single one. It’s almost as if the spirit of celebration got lost between the couch cushions along with last year’s Christmas cards.

Back in 1976, the Bicentennial was the talk of the town—or, in my case, the school. At 13, gearing up for my final year at Tropical Elementary, the buzz was contagious. My Boy Scout troop, 396, staged a flag-raising ceremony at school that January, and I was one of the chosen four—probably still wearing my Tenderfoot badge with a mix of pride and anxiety—to hoist Old Glory. Somewhere in a moving box, I’ve got a certificate to prove it, though I suspect it’s nestled between outdated tax returns and stray Monopoly money. There was a genuine air of hope back then: Bicentennial quarters jingled in pockets, $2 bills flashed Trumbull’s iconic “Signing of the Declaration of Independence” on the back, and NASA even dolled up the Vehicle Assembly Building with the Bicentennial logo, as if the Space Age itself was saluting America’s big birthday.

Now, fifty years later, here I am—63 years young, living four hours away from where it all began, managing change and trying to summon a shred of Semiquincentennial spirit. The only buzz I hear online is from dubious America 250 merch, flagged by Norton 360 like a bad blind date. I haven’t watched live TV in ages, so I can’t say if the old guard—ABC, CBS, NBC, Fox—are serving up patriotic specials. I’d bet conservative media, Fox News and Newsmax, squeeze in a reference here or there, but honestly, everyone’s attention seems glued to bigger headlines: the war with Iran rattling the world economy, a president’s popularity nosediving, and those ever-looming midterm elections.

I won’t pretend my life was all sunshine and rainbows fifty years ago—my first serious romance was on its last legs, sixth-grade anxieties were mounting, and the mysteries of junior high loomed like the Bermuda Triangle. Still, I was generally happier, more optimistic. My mom and I had a cozy house in Westchester, Miami; my older half-sister had her own place, which meant less drama at home; and my best friend, Mark Prieto, lived just a few houses down—a constant presence and inspiration for my Garratyverse stories. Responsibilities were fewer, worries lighter, and every time Burger King’s “Have It Your Way” jingle played—the Bicentennial version, mind you, with “200 million people, no two are quite the same…”—I’d get goosebumps and maybe crave a Whopper.

Nowadays, in my rented room in Orlando, the only quarters I can confirm are the ones tucked away in my nightstand drawer. I have no clue if the Mint has issued Semiquincentennial coins—maybe they’re saving them for a big surprise, or maybe they’re just as nostalgic as I am.