Living along the river you can see a first rate fireworks show and never have to leave your porch. As far as you can hear and see the air is filled with soft explosions from across the river echoing through the hills while bursts color light the night sky revealing the silhouettes of ancient trees that seem to catch the glittering jewels in their branches. No crowds, no traffic, no noise, and no one doing stupid and dangerous things like holding an m80 a little too long and blowing off their hand. All of the neighbors have gone off to celebrate taking their food, boats, kids, dogs, assorted thundering kabooms and sparkling aerials with them.
At one time I was married to self proclaimed pyro tech who believed the bigger and louder the better. The 4th was never dull as he and our boys blew up numerous watermelons, cans, and a life size Barbie that was never quite the same again (Lets not forget the creative use of tennis balls, duct tape, filled with m whatever’s).
When our daughter was born I thought I would at last have an ally in my protest to the 4th of July madness that seemed to over take the minds of the males in our family. All golden curls, ruffles, and pinafores this delicate pink cheeked creature turned out to be the biggest pyro in the bunch! I should have known by the fixated gleam in her eyes as the first sparkler was held in that chubby little hand that I may as well give up and have the hose, bandages, burn medicine, and the phone with 911 on stand by and ready to go. Everyone has grown up and moved out on their own (including the husband) and sorry to say I really don’t miss the smell of burnt hair, flesh, or Barbie plastic.
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