Fireworks Lament

I love fireworks!

No, I really really really love'em. I do.

I love to be as close as possible to them. Close enough to see the mortars in which they are loaded. Close enough to get ash in my eyes if the wind changes direction. Close enough that the big ones, you know, the ones that expand enormously, seem like they are coming to get me.

I just love the whoosh when they fire off, the bang when they explode. Nothing can compare to the fireworks displays we attended when the boys were little. They'd start things off with one hundred thousand firecrackers. Yep, firecrackers no fireworks. That was serious noise.

Fireworks get me going. They make me laugh with delight. Everyone else oohs and aahs and I laugh. Once friends get used to me, I think my laughter is as much a part of the Fourth as homemade vanilla ice cream and the Jimi Hendrix version of the Star-Spangled Banner.

This year, we watched the fireworks from a park on a distant hill. Because the Biggest Little City did NOT have the usual display so we had to strain our eyes to see the ones ten miles east. No one told us we should have taken binoculars. There were no whooshes or booms. There was no laughter. That the dogs were totally cool with it was some consolation.

Let freedom ring and next year I'm buying sparklers and a Piccolo Pete and some groundflowers. Just saying.