Confessions of a Fourth of July Disaster (Again)
Confessions of a Fourth of July Disaster (Again)
Every year I tell myself this is the year our Fourth of July goes off without a hitch. And every year, I am wrong.
It started innocently enough. My husband, a man who has never once read an instruction manual in his life, decided this was the year he’d “go big” on fireworks. Not sparklers. Not the cute little fountains you get at the grocery store checkout. Big. Box-of-mystery-explosives big.
He set up what I can only describe as a fireworks command center in the middle of the backyard, surrounded by lawn chairs full of relatives who had absolutely no business being that close. My mother-in-law brought her own folding chair and parked it directly behind the launch site like she had VIP seats. I tried to warn her. She waved me off with the confidence of a woman who has survived forty Fourths of July and has no intention of changing now.
The first firework went up beautifully. Gorgeous gold sparks, oohs and ahhs all around, very Norman Rockwell. The second one went sideways. Literally sideways, skimming about four feet off the ground before exploding directly over the picnic table, sending three teenagers diving under it like they were dodging gunfire and one uncle somehow ending up in the kiddie pool, lawn chair and all.
My dog, who up until this point had been bravely holding it together, took this as her cue to launch herself through the screen door and directly into my lap, where she stayed, trembling, for the rest of the night. I don’t blame her one bit.
Meanwhile my husband stood there completely unbothered, lighting the next one like nothing had happened, while my mother-in-law calmly moved her chair four feet to the left and said, “Well, that one had more kick than I expected.”
We never did figure out what was actually in that box. The label had worn off, the only writing I could read said something about “professional use only,” and at this point we have decided that question is best left unanswered.
The grand finale was supposed to be a big spinning wheel thing my husband nailed to a fence post. It spun exactly twice before flying off the post entirely and skittering across the yard like a deranged pinwheel, chased by my brother-in-law who apparently thought this was a reasonable thing to attempt.
By the time it was all over, we’d lost one lawn chair to the kiddie pool, singed exactly one of my good outdoor cushions, and discovered my dog now associates the entire month of July with personal betrayal.
And you know what? We’re already talking about next year’s plan.
Happy Fourth, everybody. May your fireworks go up and not sideways, and may your dog forgive you eventually.
