I guess I’m un-American.
As I sit in my room watching the window to make sure the lawn doesn’t catch on fire, I have a question: How does spending untold fortunes to light things on fire celebrate our national heritage?
The smoke billowing up every few seconds isn’t going anywhere. A noxious cloud is virtually blocking the street light. The neighbor’s yard a few houses down just caught fire. (Quick-moving adults put it out, but it wasn’t their yard.) At least twice I’ve seen everyone run from the street into hiding, presumably to avoid the neighborhood patrol cars. Cops are fining this year.
My dog is freaking out. She’s 2-3 years old, a playful German Shepherd. (She’s fun-loving, but sounds ferocious and protective. Once we give the okay she’ll probably just lick you to death.) She’s hiding in the dark hallway, and looks at me with much confusion as I try to reassure her. Despite my easy tone, I’m sure she thinks it’s the end of the world.
The cats don’t give a damn. They’re cats.
I’ve been unable to have a window open since nightfall. The stench of sulfur, cordite and who knows what other toxins have permeated the air. It smells like the devil has been eating rotten eggs. My lungs hurt. How much green-friendly crap could we avoid having to do by stopping this ozone-killing ritual? I’d gladly swap this night of excess in exchange for fewer dirty looks when I ask for a plastic bag at the Hawthorne Freddy’s.
And finally, what about the soldiers who’ve lived through the real deal? I’ve not been in the military, but have lived in neighborhoods where gunfire is common. (Every pop could mean a bullet coming through a window or a wall, and when it’s close-by the kids need to get into the bathtub.) I can only imagine how much more intense it must be for those who have been faced with true gunfire and explosions, and how much fun they’re having right now. How many cases of post-traumatic-stress-syndrome peak this time of year?
Okay, enough of my curmudgeonly old man rants. I’m not usually a killjoy, honest. But the prospect of my neighborhood smelling like a burning butthole for the next few days has me cranky.
I’ll be in a much better mood, just as soon as I can open a window to cool down, without having to worry about swallowing a piece of air…
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Dude. I <3 you. Yes, I let the kids watch other people’s fireworks, because, well, what would be the point of keeping them in? But we never buy our own. But when the neighbors started in with the loud and illegal, my 9 year old actually got scared enough to go indoors – because it does, indeed, sound like you’re under fire.
And every year, I am thankful that I don’t have to raise my children under fire. I wish no one had to.
Why, this gives me an advice column idea…
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