And, sure, small-town Utah is chock-full of flag-wavin', troop-supportin' and Republican-votin' folks.

But walk into Fairview's Home Plate Cafe on any given day and the first person you're bound to see - certainly the first you're bound to hear - is a sly old rabble-rouser named Don Smith.

The retired software engineer calls himself a "center of the road kind of guy." Home Plate customers and staff call him "Lefty."

Smith's cultural counterpoint sits at the same counter, two seats down, wrinkled features hidden under the brim of a baseball cap with a picture of a B-24 Liberator on the brow. Lee MacKay flew 27 missions over Europe during World War II. Having given so much of his time "to protect our country," he's not too fond of those who spend their time bashing it.

Patriotism means different things to different folk. And that's just as true in the boondocks of central Utah as in its metropolitan centers. The people you'll run into in the valleys formed by the Sanpete and Sevier rivers will spend today contemplating and celebrating patriotism in different ways.

Their paths may differ, but most say they're proud to be Americans.

Leland Callister speaks softly and walks with a cane. But his voice rises and his body straightens when the subject of patriotism comes up.

"The Constitution," he says. "Defend it with all of our heart, all our our mind and all of our strength."

He pauses and stares vacantly into the sky. "And our blood, if necessary."

On most Mondays, Callister makes the 115-mile trip from his home in Spring City to the Veterans Administration Hospital in Salt Lake City, where his post-traumatic stress disorder support group meets.

He won't today, though.

"I'll be spending the day staying away from the loud noises," says the two-tour Vietnam War veteran. "Anything that sounds like a bomb, a grenade or gunfire."

That may be tough to do. Just south of Callister's home, about 10 miles down historic Highway 89, the Mahler family is doing their part to ensure this will be the loudest, brightest July Fourth celebration in Sanpete County history.

For the owners of two TNT Fireworks booths, patriotism and capitalism are inextricably linked.

"We're here to make some money," says 16-year-old Isaac Mahler, whose 10-member family intends to keep their stands open for 24 hours today to support would-be pyrotechnists willing to drop a few bucks to make a few bangs.

Though her family is new to the game, Mary Mahler sells with an expert's pitch. And she laments that her supply of Delirium - "the biggest, baddest firework available in Utah" - has run out.

Demand for the fountains of purple, silver and green flames has outstripped supply all over the state, the 15-year-old explains. By contrast, the "These Colors Don't Run" package of red, white and blue numbers hasn't been selling all that well this year.

Maybe the colors of Old Glory don't make for the best fireworks show, but Janice Richardson and LaVon Morgan have found they still turn heads on the highway.

The Harley-riding women decked their bikes and bodies in red, white and blue for a ride to Richfield, where they'll cavort with about 50 of their closest associates today at a 5-acre plot owned by a close friend.

What is patriotism for these folks?

Richardson twists a finger around one of her long, blond pigtails. "OK, well, that means supporting our troops and our country . . . "

"Blah, blah, blah," her red-headed running mate interrupts, cackling as she turns toward her white and blue 2005 Heritage Softtail Deluxe. "This is it right here. The freedom to do this."

Richardson smiles as she looks toward her own bike, a 2000 Heritage Softtail Classic painted the same color as her nails - I'm-Not-Really-A-Waitress Red. "We do like having the freedom to ride," she says.

Cody Stones and Kirby Gardner figure such freedoms - and countless others - come at a significant cost. Their husbands, members of the Utah National Guard's 222nd Field Artillery Unit, will spend this Independence Day in Kuwait, in preparation for entry into Iraq later this week.

" 'Freedom isn't free' is about the truest thing you can hear anymore," says Stones, who will raise her three young children alone for the next year. "All I have to do anymore is see a flag and I start crying."

Richfield residents have come together to help care for Guard family members, but Stones says she still expects to spend a significant part of today in tears.

Gardner - who has spent more than half of her two-year marriage away from her husband - figures being patriotic means accepting the sacrifices of Guard family life. But that doesn't mean she enjoys it.

"You just close your eyes and wish it was next year," she says.

For Pat Hansen, who has a husband, two sons and two nephews in the Guard, patriotism has taken on a new meaning in the past few years.

"The sacrifices that go along with being patriotic have started to mean so much more," she says. "It's much more real for a lot of us."

mlaplante@sltrib.com