Give Me Rockets Like Flowers
I am not especially patriotic, but I love a good fireworks display. I’m not sure how I came to this attraction to all things bright and sparkly. It isn’t nostalgia. The only fireworks I remember in my childhood involved a car trip with my parents down a deserted country road. We stopped outside the city limits and my dad unloaded a paper sack of bottle rockets that we carried past a herd of curious cattle to the edge of a muddy pond on some stranger’s land. It wasn’t exactly the type of memory I’m anxious to recreate.
July 4th is the day we Americans celebrate our independence by setting off grass fires and frightening the neighborhood dogs. My husband Andrew and I set aside this date every year for our annual disagreement about fireworks. He prefers to ignore them and hide inside in the air conditioning (I think he must have been a Labrador retriever in a past life) while I insist that the holiday won’t be complete unless I watch something explode.
“I could always stick a sparkler up my butt and run around,” Andrew offered when I brought up a list of my favorite viewing spots.
“Not spectacular enough,” I rejected his offer.
Last year we compromised with an outing on July 3rd to the ballpark near our home to watch the Frisco Rough Riders play baseball. The schedule stated there would be fireworks following the game…
