Fireworks (AKA Pyromaniacs)

   The 4th of July has always been a big holiday for me. I love this holiday; and not just because I love my country, although I do. I am (cliche coming) proud to be an American. Our country does have some issues, and there are some major clowns in the Government right now, but I can say that, post that opinion on a public blog, and face no repercussions. No people at my door, no censorship, nothing, because I have rights and can exercise my freedom of speech. And (God forbid) if I lost my job tomorrow, there are safety net programs in place that will help prevent my child and I from facing starvation and homelessness. Yes, those programs are flawed, but they are there. Many countries don't have them at all, flawed or otherwise, and in many countries, I would not have the options that I do here. So yes, I love my country, flaws and all. Flaws only mean that we have some work to do.
   But I digress, because love of my country is not the only reason that I love the 4th of July, the celebration of our country's independence. I love the 4th of July because of my dad. You see, my dad is a pyromaniac (not really, not really, jk in facebook speech), and every year while I was growing up, my dad would take us to these huge firework stands. We didn't get those prepackaged deals in the grocery stores, we went out to big tent stands, were they had every kind of firework that you could think of. We would browse the selection, and we would of course buy black cats and sparklers and bottle rockets, but we would buy the big fancy things as well. Those firework tent guys had to love seeing my dad. He spent BIG money on the 4th.
   On the actual 4th, during the day, we would set off the bottle rockets. This scared the beejeebies out of my mom, and as a mom myself now, I understand, but as a kid: we ignored her. And the reason that this scared the beejeebies out of my mom was because my dad and I; we did things that you aren't supposed to do. We would twist as many of those bottle rocket fuses together as we could, and light them and run. That was his number one rule: light them and run. And we would see how many we could twist together, and each time we managed to get all of them to go off at once, we would try for more next time. Always bigger with us. (DON'T DO THIS!!!) And then when the day wore on, we would start preparing for a huge bonfire. Every 4th we had a bonfire and we would do things like roast hot dogs and marshmallows and we would invite extended family and friends and everyone would eat and drink and wait for the dark.
   But my dad and I never waited for the dark to have fun. We were always good for a prank, and the one that stands out in my memory of our 4th of July celebrations was the time he had me sidle up to fire and throw in an entire pack of Black Cat fireworks while everyone stood there talking (DON'T EVER DO THIS!!!) Hehehehehehe; this was great and my dad and I; we were not nice.
    And when the night was finally dark enough, we would light the big ones. We had whistlers and roman candles and things that I don't even have names for, and we could do them all at our place, because my dad has five acres of land and we lived in the country before the divorce and the country doesn't have all the no firework rules that apartment complexes do. So I have really great memories from 4th of July, and for some reason (God) we never killed ourselves or blew off a hand, or killed anyone else.
   Being that I am a city-dweller now, and live in an apartment myself, we can't do fireworks ourselves. My daughter wouldn't like to actually set them off anyway; I have mentioned that she has a totally different personality from me, and pyromania is not one of the personality traits that we share. But I do make a big deal of the 4th. We do spend the time together as a family, and we go to watch the firework shows that the parks put on. She does enjoy that, and frankly, I am too much of a worry-wart, helicopter mom to let her do any of the crap that I did. Twist fuses together and light them? I don't think so: not my baby.