We sat on the grass on a warm July night, the ground still wet from the earlier rain. The pond before us was calm and still, even as a slight breeze played across the grass. The cacophony of the crowd surrounding us bathed us and made our voices private even in the middle of all of these ears. On our blanket we waited, dusk passing over our heads, patient for the triumphant reward that greets us every year.
Off in the distance, beyond the pond and past the reach of the lights one, then two, then three, then four flares were lit. They separated and walked past the wooden crates that were now illuminated in an unearthly red glow. Down one went, then back up, then another dipped only to return. The crowd cheered; it had begun. With a muffled blast the ball was sent skyward, sparks trailing it toward the cloudless sky before finally exploding in a triumphant blast of color and noise.
It was as this point that Emily and I learned bringing Hershey was a bad idea.
The lights intrigued her, the loud explosions didn’t bother her (after a time), but it was the whistling ones; those shrieking missiles heading skyward, that she couldn’t take. She hid between us and would only calm down if I managed to say her name into her ear louder than the discordance before us. Needless to say, we were happy when it was over.
The next day, neighbors set off more fireworks. Our new neighbors. Let’s say their diplomatic skillset on being around fresh people is a little wanting. Basically, it may seem rude to set off a quarter stick of dynamite in the middle of the road at 4 in the afternoon 2 days after you finish moving in. But hey, maybe I’m just a traditionalist.
Saturday was a cookout, Sunday was a trip to the park. Both have stories of their own that will have to wait for another day. For today is Monday, so I must toil in the salt mines.
