Most times, I pride myself in standing up for everything that defines America. This time of year, however, I have to go against so many of my countrymen on one thing.
I hate fireworks.
Not the boom up in the sky, crane you neck and admire kind. I like this. I really enjoyed the show we had in town this week.
I could just do without the regular people who set off fireworks all week leading up to the Fourth of July.
I really can’t set my finger on why I feel this way. I guess a lot of it boils down to the fact that I’m a big scaredy-cat.
I don’t have any horrible tale from growing up when a good friend of mine blew his fingers off while playing with an M-80. I did have a firecracker go off kind of by my ear, but it didn’t do any serious damage.
But I do know those kinds of injuries happen. That alone made me worry whenever I got near the things, even as a kid.
Then there was the time that my friends Bobby, Dave, and I almost set the grass around the water tower in our town on fire.
Someone – I really don’t know who – set off a bottle rocket in the general direction of the tower. It went off, we talked about how cool it looked, then we all gasped when we saw smoke coming from the dry grass.
Yeah, dry grass and bottle rockets aren’t friends. Luckily, the fence around the tower had a hole in it and one of them ran all the way around to it and stomped out the fire.
Knowing that I could be fooling around with things that can blow your fingers off and set the grass on fire was pretty much enough for me.
I can’t remember the last time I personally set off some fireworks. I do remember some buddies in college blowing up big milk crates with M-80s, which was kind of cool. Well, until a piece of one milk crate flew across the parking lot and hit me in the chest.
Again, I wasn’t hurt, but I had seen the light. I haven’t gone near stuff getting blowed up since.
I drive past those tents filled with fireworks these days and wonder why people even bother. I also wonder what the people who set up those tents every year do the other 51 weeks of the year, but that’s a totally different story.
I really wonder the draw when I read stories about how Pennsylvania makes it so hard for people to buy the really cool fireworks. I just don’t understand driving all the way to South Carolina or wherever you need to go to get the “good stuff” just so you can see something sparkle and burn.
If that is so important, I can just cook dinner. Something exciting is bound to happen then.
And I can promise no one will lose a finger.