As the perceptible layers of cordite blankets the neighborhood, I am reminded of what the Fourth of July means to me.
I am sure the military veterans in my neighborhood and surrounding communities are also reliving the adrenaline-charged times they spent entrenched in some unpronounceable foreign town far from their home listening to deafening explosives go off, cheating death.
I know my dog was all excited about the window-rattling celebration. I could feel her heart pounding in her little, shaking, panting body. And she had into the wee hours of the morning to experience the sensation.
But the “celebrating” doesn’t stop on the Fourth. No, for several days following, the air will be peppered with residue explosions and fire crackers. Gotta blow them up if you have them … don’t want all that money spent go to waste.
Yeah, that’s what the Fourth of July is all about.
I used to write my City Council, you know, thinking that perhaps they could enforce the existing fireworks law or perhaps just ban the use of fireworks within city limits, but they don’t share my lack of revelry – so, I pray for rain. Maybe Mother Nature has a more sympathetic ear, but I think she is rooting for us to just blow all ourselves up.
– Phyllis Conley
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