RSS
Google Reader
Twitter,
FacebookI was curled up in my favorite polka-dot armchair with a good book on a late Saturday night in June. My husband had already gone to bed early to prepare for an early weekend shift the next day, and my dog Oscar and I were staying up to watch TV and relax until sleepiness set in.
Suddenly, there was a loud BOOM.
My first thought was that someone might be shooting off a gun nearby. Having grown up in southern Maryland, a prime location for farms and hunting and the like, this wasn’t such an unusual assumption. I waited quietly for a moment to see if it happened again, and sure enough, a second BOOM followed. I crept outside in my pajamas to investigate — and was surprised and delighted to see fireworks above the treeline. It wasn’t even July 4th yet, but I was glad for whatever occasion my neighbors were celebrating.
These gorgeous explosions were nothing like the pitiful little puffs I was accustomed to seeing in residential areas. (My parents’ neighbors, for example, never needed an excuse to shoot off fireworks, but theirs were the smaller, tamer variety from tents in the Walmart parking lot.)
These, instead, seemed to be professional quality — the huge, glorious, loud, colorful kind you see at ball games or on the Fourth of July. And they were right there in my own neighborhood, where I had a perfect view from my back stoop.
One at a time, the neighbors set them off, lighting up the dark star-filled sky with blooms of red and green and gold. Shapes burst and faded, colors crackled and changed, and the sky smelt of sulfur in that satisfying haze of post-firework smoke. My favorites were the elegant gold ones that spread to look like sparkling weeping willow trees, and the best and the loudest were the bold, sizzling reds. A few times I found myself clapping with appreciation, even though there was no one close enough to hear.
I sat out there on my stoop beneath the fireworks and the fireflies, dazzled by colors and sounds, for the better part of an hour, completely oblivious to the mosquitoes who snacked on me periodically.
Ever since I was tiny I’ve loved to watch fireworks, dutifully oohing and aahing at each burst of different shapes and colors. I eagerly looked forward to the Fourth of July and our family pilgrimage to nearby Solomons Island to lay out picnic blankets and eat ice cream bars and watch the show. Except for the eternal traffic jam afterwards (and the year that poor Mom sprained her ankle on the trek back to our car), it was bliss.
Now, I watch the ones in Washington, DC, every year on TV and was once lucky enough to view them up close from a friend’s boat on the Potomac River. I always stay until the end of baseball games when there’s a promise of a fireworks show, and I happily watch my family set off our own sparklers and rockets in the driveway each year.
This was the very first year I’d ever spent a July 4th by myself, because my husband (cherry pie in tow) had unfortunately been assigned a night shift in DC. But despite the solitude, I still managed to enjoy myself. Until nightfall, I stuffed myself full of cheeseburger and corn on the cob and blueberry lemon pie, talked to Hubby on the phone, and cuddled with Oscar on the couch.
When the sun finally dipped below the horizon, my apparently patriotic neighbors shot off their collective fireworks on cue. When I heard the BOOMs and CRACKLEs and FIZZes all around the house, I scooped Oscar up in my arms, yanked off my socks, and ran into the backyard. We were privy to another private viewing, and I drank it all in in the comfort of my own pajamas, the damp grass tickling under my bare feet and my sleepy pug snorting gently in approval.
When I finally went back inside, I turned on the TV to watch the celebration in Washington, DC. Forty-five minutes away in his office, my husband was watching the same thing.
Here’s to Independence Day, ambitious neighbors, and the best and brightest pyrotechnics a girl could hope for.
Delicious
Digg
