As I sit in my chair facing out into my garden watching the ever darkening evening approach, the flash and bang of incendiary devices commences. I am reminded.

Oh, right. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July!

This means, I am currently bombarded by amateur firecracker smiths’ efforts to celebrate early—no doubt drunk on freedom or something wetter sold in cardboard cases at every gas station in the fifty states.

Hang on…Firecracker Smith? Is that the right title? What is the term for someone who professionally handles fireworks? Checks the internet…ah yes, a pyrotechnician! At least, that is what their lawyer will assert should they burn down any important buildings.

Sidebar: someone who unprofessionally sets off fireworks is typically called “Lefty” or “That crazy bastard” by their neighbors.

I am thinking of Fourth of Julys past. I discuss this with my mother-in-law— specifically the reason why we stopped going to the pancake breakfast hosted on behalf of veterans in Grandville, Michigan. I’m surprised she’s forgotten.

Me: “Don’t you remember, Laura? That first year we moved here, your darling grandson overturned his trike (which weighed over 100 pounds—the bike, I mean, but probably the kid did too) and smashed his face into the concrete requiring a trip to the emergency room because he bit through his lip!”

MIL: “Oh. That’s right. That was an awful day!” Laura replies.

Since then, we’ve managed tamer 4ths, including an unforgettable cruise on the S.S. Badger many years ago, but I’ve never entirely trusted the holiday either. (Personally, I believe the Fourth of July was invented to test parents’ patience and their ability to keep their children alive.)

The weather we are having lately tips into the 90’s. It is 10 P.M. here and it is still 86° outside. That is now considered a ‘cool’ temperature.

If you are in Arizona, you are no doubt laughing your proverbial derrieres off. For you, it doesn’t really start to get hot until there are three digits beside that degree symbol. (At that point, the little round circle is saying it is hot enough to boil an egg.) I am never going to move to Arizona. I am too white to survive the melanomas that would spontaneously erupt every time I stepped outdoors.

I would much rather stay home, in air conditioning, and read or work on a jigsaw puzzle. Instead, I will walk with my son along the Buck Creek Trail as we have in years past and set up our blanket to lie down and watch the stars be put to shame by flashier if shorter-lived displays. I will suffer the loud concussive booms of the many firework enthusiasts—those with all their fingers and those who can no longer count to ten without taking their shoes off—and appreciate that my son still enjoys this journey with his mom.

And then I will gratefully haul my child homeward, where ice cream awaits to celebrate surviving the heat of the day.

I wish you much joy on your Fourth of July and we will hope that you can count your gratitude on all ten of your fingers come Monday!