I love a party but have to admit I have mixed feelings about the Fourth of July holiday.

Certainly I enjoy the holiday much more than I used to, but Independence Day has been a problem ever since I moved here more than 35 years ago.

From London, England.

See my problem with Independence Day?

Well, part of the problem. The other part is the extraordinary kindness of Americans, many of whom invited me during my early single years, to their holiday cookouts.

It took me a while to understand why I returned from such festivities feeling a little blue.

And then it occurred to me that a day spent laughing at what I call “redcoat jokes,” however well intentioned, resulted in a sense of not being part of the gang — indeed, of being a turkey in the company of eagles, if you will excuse a dreadful metaphor.

I just do not have those childhood memories that Americans share of happy and patriotism-infused family gatherings around cookouts and fireworks. Indeed, given the English weather, which is pretty much like that in Rhode Island this past month, cookouts are more often acts of will rather than pleasure. And the steaks and burgers are smaller.

Adding to my confused state of mind was the fact that as a Brit I did not get many of the jokes. (How do you make a Brit laugh when he’s old? Tell him a joke when he’s young!)

So I confess that I began to swear off invitations to Fourth of July parties. Indeed, it got so bad that I ended up one Fourth alone with a dismal meal of pork chops and peas. But that was a low point that I quickly realized was less fun than a frozen smile making my face hurt as I was treated to another joke about lost Colonies.

I confess I prefer Thanksgiving Day, a holiday for adults when the air is crisp and full of anticipation of the December holidays.

Indeed, the Christmas holiday season is our big blowout in Britain, with the week between Christmas and New Year increasingly an informal national holiday with many companies closing up for the duration.

Needless to say, we do not celebrate the Fourth of July in Britain. Nor indeed Thanksgiving, sadly, especially as we do celebrate disgracefully on Nov. 5 with fireworks and the burning of an effigy of Guy Fawkes, a Catholic who tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament in 1605. Sometimes I think history should be put back in its box.

But my attitude to Independence Day changed in 1999 when I became a naturalized citizen (actually dual American-British), a process that involved some farce (an African-American consular officer asking me in all seriousness to write the sentence: “We came to America to be free” as part of my English test), and some thought-provoking words (the judge in New York telling the group being naturalized with me: “America offers you everything, but gives you nothing”).

I now feel a part of the proceedings — even though the jokes continue!

So I suppose that however much I love this nation and appreciate the opportunities it has granted me, a part of me will feel forever a trifle British, straddling the line between loss and celebration.

But maybe that is the lot of all Brits of my boomer generation who were born in the immediate shadow of WWII and the more distant glow of empire.

Certainly, I cannot imagine the Queen viewing my participation as treasonous. It was her great-great-great-great-grandfather, after all, who lost “the Colonies” in the first place!

Peter C.T. Elsworth is the Journal’s automotive writer.

pelsworth@projo.com