A week after the Fourth of July — after the parade with its brass bands and sunburned trombonists, after the fireworks ricocheting off the Riviera, after the last paper plate was scraped clean of tri tip — I found myself with a nagging thought.

Something was missing. Someone, actually.

We forgot to invite Mark Twain.

It’s the sort of oversight Santa Barbara specializes in: we remember the sunscreen, the folding chairs, the dog’s patriotic bandana, but we forget the one American who would’ve enjoyed the whole spectacle more than anyone else.

Twain would’ve fit right in — a man who understood that patriotism is equal parts affection and exasperation, like loving a teenager who insists on driving with the windows down in a rainstorm.

Twain knew California before it learned to sip Pinot Noir and worship avocado toast. He met us when we were still a rough draft — a place where a person could lose a fortune before breakfast and make another by supper.

It was north of here, in the Sierra foothills, that Samuel Clemens tried on the name Mark Twain and found it fit.

California gave him his first great success, that famous jumping frog that has been hopping through American literature and neighborhood book clubs ever since.

Twain loved us for our audacity, our foolishness, and our refusal to take ourselves too seriously.

Which is why I keep thinking we should’ve saved him a seat at the Fourth of July table.

Because Twain, more than any other American writer, understood the peculiar blend of hope and hypocrisy that makes this country what it is.

He knew patriotism isn’t blind devotion — it’s stubborn loyalty. It’s sticking with the old steamboat, making repairs along the way, especially when the boiler rattles and the captain seems a little confused.

If Twain were here today, strolling down State Street with a cone of McConnell’s ice cream, he’d have observations aplenty.

• Our food — He’d marvel at kale, pity the chickens, and wonder why a hamburger now costs as much as a used surfboard.
• Our entertainment — He’d note that we’ve traded the Mississippi River for glowing screens and spend our evenings watching strangers renovate houses we’ll never afford.
• Our drugs — He’d sigh and say Americans have always sought shortcuts to happiness — from patent medicines to fentanyl — but we’ve become more efficient at self-destruction.
• Our endless wars — Twain, an early critic of imperial adventures, would shake his head and remind us that you cannot civilize people with artillery.
• Immigration — He’d point out that America was built by people who arrived with nothing but hope and a willingness to work, and he’d wonder why we’ve grown suspicious of the very story that made us.
• Gender wars — He’d sit this one out like a playwright watching a dress rehearsal — amused, bewildered and grateful not to be on stage. “The actors will tire themselves out,” he’d say. “Then the real conversation can begin.”
• Politics — He’d be delighted — not approving, but delighted. Twain loved political absurdity the way fishermen love storm stories. He’d say Congress remains the only native criminal class in America, and he’d admire how vigorously we’ve kept the tradition alive.

But beneath the jokes, Twain would still believe in us. He always did.

He believed ordinary people — the Huck Finns and Jim Smilies — were wiser than the powerful. He believed humor was a form of courage.

And he believed that telling the truth, even when it stings, is an act of patriotism.

So maybe next year, when the Fourth rolls around again and fireworks bloom over the harbor, we should set out one extra chair.

Not for nostalgia, but for accountability. For honesty. For the reminder that this country is still a work in progress — a steamboat on a foggy river, noisy, unpredictable, occasionally on fire, but somehow still moving forward.

And if Mark Twain were sitting there, white suit glowing in the twilight, he’d tip his hat, grin that crooked grin, and say, “Well, it’s your turn now. Try not to sink the damn thing.”