He won't be lighting sparklers or flying the Stars and Stripes or catching parade taffy - none of the traditional, if corny, Fourth of July activities.

Instead, on this most American of holidays, Beers will be contemplating "Godly obedience" with other Jehovah's Witnesses at a regional convention in Ogden.

Not raised in the faith, Beers, a middle-age Delta Air Lines ramp agent, converted later in life to a religion that asks its members not to vote, fly the flag or celebrate nonreligious holidays. He pays his taxes, obeys the law, but otherwise forgoes political participation.

On this day of red-white-and-blue frenzy, Beers will live quietly. "We have to eat," he says. Firing up the barbecue is a possibility. And if he and his wife happen to glance at a firework, "we don't turn into a pumpkin," he says, a bit exasperated.

Beers' religiously motivated notion of citizenship is his choice, one of the American ideals enshrined in the Bill of Rights and perhaps proof it's possible to be patriotic, however unconventionally, without being draped in the flag.

The idea is somewhat foreign in the years since the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. The flag has been everywhere - staked in yards, stuck on bumper stickers and pasted in windows. It has been the favorite symbol of Americans' solidarity and collective mourning. And with the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq has come an official expectation of loyalty to the president.

Those who forgo the flag-waving or the pro-war enthusiasm can be viewed with suspicion and disdain.

Patriotism, says civil rights attorney Brian Barnard, has been hijacked.

"One group taking the flag and saying, 'It belongs to us,' defining patriotism, is very troublesome," he said. "The rest of us out there can be patriotic, too. It's patriotic to embrace freedom. It is patriotic to insist that government not take away my privacy, my constitutional rights. That's patriotic."

J.D. Williams, emeritus University of Utah political science professor, agrees. Williams says patriotism, the passion of the Founding Fathers, embraces disagreement, agitation and simple citizenship. "There are many ways to be patriotic," he says.

Each day, as Linda Oswald walks her dog around her Salt Lake City neighborhood, she picks up discarded aluminum soda cans, shopping bags, bits and pieces of paper. Embarrassed a little at being caught, she dismisses it as a habit born of being a "clean freak."

Maybe it's more than that. The retired genetics lab worker has always cleaned up after others. On backpacking trips in the Uintas, she and her husband, Fred, pulled out black garbage sacks on their way down the trail. She has picked up in the park across the street. She recycles what she gathers.

"I'm just trying to clean up the world in my own little way," she says. "I hardly consider it patriotic. But I guess it is in its own little way."

Bob Fisher is equally nonplussed at the idea his routine speeches at Salt Lake City Council and County Council meetings are anything out of the ordinary.

When the 77-year-old landlord and president of the Utah Property Rights Association stands up - with the standard salutation, "Bob Fisher, county taxpayer" - many elected officials roll their eyes. He shows up with snapshots, complaining about power poles and the lack of traffic lights. He writes letter upon letter. Sometimes, he sounds like a conspiracy theorist. But other times, he makes politicians squirm with on-point criticism.

"I try to keep these politicians out of jail," he says. "They ignore me. But one of the things they know, if Bob brings something up, he can back it up."

He carries a copy of the Constitution in his pocket. "There's a lot of people afraid to get out and speak up," Fisher says. "I do it to stay on their backs a little bit. They get upset."

Gina Cornia's job is to prod the same politicians. Her bumper sticker collection betrays a certain humanist bias - "Nobody's born a bigot," "Oh no! Not another learning experience," and "In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act." A more partisan example shows a child drawing "F--- Bush" on a sidewalk. But Cornia's motivation is simple - getting food for the hungry.

Right now, the director of Utahns Against Hunger is focused on shoring up small Utah farms. She says about 15 percent of Utahns last year didn't have a secure source of food and one-third of those went hungry.

"There are probably a lot of people who would see my car and not think I'm very patriotic," Cornia says. "But what could be more patriotic than making sure there's food on the table for everyone to eat? Everyone should have access to basic human needs."

Like Cornia, Aaron Davis is used to skepticism about his loyalty to country. A Vietnam-era veteran, 54-year-old Davis drives a bus for Utah Transit Authority during the day and spends the rest of his time protesting for peace and helping veterans finds jobs, health care and counseling.

"Voting is good, but it's not enough," Davis says. "Activism is more patriotic for me."

He protested the war in Iraq when his two sons, members of the Arizona National Guard, were driving convoys between Tikrit and Baghdad. He marched in the Gay Pride Parade. And he's planning to walk seven miles from the Utah Peace Gardens to Fort Douglas on Sept. 11.

"Peace is patriotic. Dissent is patriotic. It's American," Davis says. "That's difficult for people to understand."

Eventually, people will understand again, Barnard says. He expects the tide of hyperpatriotism to ebb to allow a more moderate love of country, like Davis' and Oswald's and even Beers', to be enough again.

"It's a pendulum swing," Barnard says. "It goes one way too far, then it goes the other way too far. Ultimately, there's a decent balance which keeps our country in place."