Firecrackers

For years, I believed that fireworks were for a very special breed of people aptly named pyrotechnicians. Sure, I'd drive by those yellow stands with the fat red writing, but I never stopped to survey the goods, and I certainly didn't buy any. Regular folk (i.e. everyone I knew) didn't shoot fireworks. Maybe we'd ooh and aah as we swung a sparkler or two around, but come nightfall, we found a spot on the hill, laid out a blanket and watched the sky magically bloom. Somewhere far, far away pyrotechnicians--in their proper protective gear--choreographed the show.

And then...I spent fourth of July with Cody's family!

First, line the kids up on a wall and give them each a book of matches...(Kidding!)...(I think.)...

Then, let Cody's dad work his magic...

This is very serious business.

This ain't bottle rockets and black snakes; it's orange cones and earplugs, and the whole neighborhood sitting in lawn chairs watching the sky fall down.

Come nightfall, when you're knee-deep in queso, and you've got a crick in your neck from staring up too much, thank your lucky stars that when you wake up tomorrow all fingers and eyes will be accounted for, and there will be nothing to do but sweep the street, sip on strong coffee and shake your head, saying, Quite a show; quite a show, indeed.