The war of the night before is finally over.The scorched confetti of pyro’s paychecks litter the street while an acrid smell still hangs in the air.
Happy July Fifth.
This is a day worth celebrating. We won. We beat King George. Again. A day where family pets can come out of the bunker, get on with their lives and start to deal with newly acquired P.T.S.D.
It’s been in the 90s where I live and there’s no end in sight. I heard fire engines in route to various genius locations last night. I hope they still have a place to live.
Fireworks are illegal within the city limits, backed with the threat of a $5,000 fine. From the sound of things, the general consensus was, “Screw you copper. It’s the Fourth of July! You’re not taking away my right as an American to jeopardize the well-being of my neighbors. I’m having my rockets red glare. You’ll never take me alive, so stay the hell away.
“Hey, help, I’m getting robbed. Help! Help!”
At nineteen, drunk and in a dingy on Lake Union with my buddy J.P., I had a bottle rocket explode right next to my head. My ears rang for a week.
When I was twenty and lived in Alaska, my friend and I climbed onto the roof of a garage to pull an inebriated guy out of an apartment that was on fire. He didn’t seem to mind that we dropped him on his head from the second story. It’s the thought that counts. The building didn’t last long after that. In the same week, a station wagon full of explosives went off with the driver inside cooked to perfection.
I also once rebuilt a house that had burned. I had to throw away a lifetime of possessions and memories that had belonged to the owner. He too is lucky to be alive.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a good fireworks show put on by professionals and am grateful to live in the land of the free.
But I still count my blessings that I survived another 4th hangover free with my house still standing and all my fingers and toes still attached.