I think fireworks are dumb. They're loud, wasteful, they scare dogs and cats, scare combat veterans who have contributed to our independence, they come from a communist country, set fires that weary-but-heroic firefighters have to put out, etc. Need I go on?
This year I bought fireworks. First time ever.
Why?
Kids. (Well, "kid," really. Suzanne could not care less about things that spark and go pow! At this stage in her life, if she can't put it in her mouth and suck nutritious juice out of it, it's low on the priority list.)
Anyway, I had a good time going out with Elizabeth and Aaron to spend a few bucks on fireworks with names like Ground Blooming Flower and TNT Mr. Turtle. At the fireworks stand (a plywood affair set up in a parking lot), Aaron asked after even more mysterious sounding products such as The Friendship Pavilion, which the guy behind the counter lamented hadn't been imported in quite some time.
Aaron is a native Oregonian, you should understand. He has an almost innate familiarity with these Oriental infernal devices. To a New Yorker such as myself, a Ground Blooming Flower is unbelievably exotic compared to the sparklers and snappers to which we were limited. To my twelve-year-old mind, a pack of Black Cats was akin to a kilo of heroin.
So we barbecued with Grandma and the neighbors (aka the Swans, and Wendy, Lily, Aaron), then after dinner retired to the street to set off the fireworks. We were joined by our new neighbors Jade, Sabrina, and Lily. Jollity happened. Elizabeth ran around in her underpants. No one got hurt.
A good Fourth.
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