Kaboom

When my parents lived in Chicago, they routinely left the city on July 4 because their neighborhood was rocked by explosions, thanks to the damn kids and their fireworks. Our neighborhood was a little like that yesterday. There Ereck and I were, trying to have a lovely dinner on the back porch -- and it was freaking Shiloh out there, except without the rivers of blood. Actually, just one neighbor was shooting bottle rockets, one every minute or so. But some exploded near us, and the mere suspense of wondering when the next blast would come completely harshed my salad Nicoise. So we moved inside.

When I was a child, my family did not shoot fireworks. That was largely the decision of my surgeon father, who saw the worst of Independence Day, year after year. I remember one July 4 I went with him to the hospital, where I waited in the doctor's lounge as he made his rounds. Nearby I could hear an adolescent boy's blood-curdling screams, and as we left I asked Dad what was happening. Turns out the kid dropped a firecracker into a bottle, and didn't get away quickly enough. Zillions of tiny shards of glass had to be plucked out of his body, one by one. It was hard to listen to. Sometimes I still hear those screams.

That said, I do understand the appeal of fireworks, especially for boys. One summer in high school, some friends and I spent a July 4 evening flinging bottle rockets at one another. This was completely idiotic, and also wonderful. I never did it again, and never want to.

And now I'm just another cranky old man who's mad at the damn kids.