Did you know it's possible to flip over a Burley, those yellow bike trailers that yuppies use to haul around their little kids? Yeah, I know this because I've done it. Back in about 1994, in my haste to get to a fireworks stand, I flipped Eric and Burley on the curb of a rather busy street.
Thank God I righted him quickly and still got to the stand before they ran out of ground blooms.
You might say I've rethunk the Fourth of July these past few years.
Where I once was willing to forgo a week of baby formula or diapers (for the children, not me) in order to get another bagful of explosives, these days I' prefer to enjoy a Shiner Bock or two on the side porch, secretly flipping off the neighbor boys as they figure out new ways to disfigure their sisters' Barbie dolls. And I'm not even a fan of Barbie dolls . . . .
Where once I saw only infinite possibilities--the delight derived from Dancing Butterflies, scintillating smoking cap sticks and enigmatic exploding tanks, now I see only garbage and hearing loss.
Sure, I will always hold dear the memories of damaging our neighbor's trampoline with our barrage of bottle rockets. True, I still giggle when I recall that smoking-cap stick exploding in my mom's girdle or the irresistible scent of a boxful of snakes licked by the flames of a Bic lighter. So, it's possible that the very ingredients of the Fourth have changed, leaving me less than enthused for nightfall.
Seems reasonable that a country so hungry for combat would eventually insist on more gunpowder in the mix. Clearly, then, something has happened at the fireworks factories in the last decade that makes an M80 now seem almost laughable. I mean, surely, it's not all the fault of my own quavering eardrums.
And, really, I can take two nights of noisy nuttiness. My neighbor kids are well trained in the use of a push broom and, come July 6, only the most hopeless of them--the ones destined for juvie or public schools--still answer the powdery swan song of their unignited explosives. If I were to be absolutely honest, the people who really are chapping my patriotic patootie these days are the ones who make a living running this country.
They are the ones who take the wind from my red-white-and-blue sails.
Which is why, at midnight tonight, when the only flavor my tongue can detect is the metallic tang of a thousand spent fireworks, the ones that will leave a bad taste in my mouth are the politicians--worse, even, than the bevy of boys taking turns blowing up things.
At least the boys take turns.
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