I didn't write much of a post about the Fourth this year, because I didn't get to enjoy my usual celebration...
I live just south of one of the best fireworks displays in
town. Most years, on the Fourth, I walk a
few blocks, pop open a lawn chair, and hang out in a conveniently undeveloped
field, watching the incredible professional fireworks from the Twin Oaks
Country Club. They completely fill up the sky, rattle through my chest.
This year? My
tried-and-true empty field was a construction zone. And the heat was absolutely vicious, keeping
me from my usual bird’s eye view. Though
my neighbors and I are residents of the county, and can legally shoot our own
firecrackers, our worries about the brittle, dry surroundings during this
prolonged drought also kept most of us from lighting much more than a few
sparklers.
So there just wasn't much going on, in our skies this year.
But we did spend
plenty of time in our backyards, hitting grills or backyard pools.
Some of my younger neighbors—a couple of
elementary-school-aged girls—spent the Fourth on a picnic blanket, under a
backyard tree, with assorted cold summer snacks and drinks and a pile of
books. I kept watching those girls, as
the day lingered on, engrossed in their reads and laughing and enjoying each
other.
It has since occurred to me that those
are perhaps the best fireworks of all—the fireworks of connecting. To another
person. To the voice in a novel. There’s nothing like that rattle that echoes
through a chest when you find someone—or something—that you can relate to, on a
personal level.
So here’s to all those fireworks of connection—may they be
popping and banging all around you, this summer and for many more to come…
