I don't like the 4th of July. Don't get me wrong. I love our country, our freedom, all of that. My problem is more with they way we as free Americans enjoy our Independence Day.
I don't like fireworks.
It's taken me a long time to admit this about myself. Fireworks are much beloved in my neck of the woods. Pittsburgh is the home of the Zambelli family. I go to a big display every few years and discover that I'm entertained for about seven minutes. After that, which is invariably about 40 minutes, I'm bored. It's too loud. I begin contemplating avoidance of traffic to get myself home because it is also way past my bedtime.
That's not a problem though. I can avoid the public displays easily. It's just one or two evenings each summer. I don't have to go. The really irksome part of the beginning of July is the firecrackers and the noisemakers and the home displays. It is now July 8th and I'm sure you won't care but I'm telling you: it's over for this year. Give it up. Let me sleep!
It's not over in this neighborhood. Each night as I'm cuddled up to my neck in my soft bed I can hear that distinctive whine and pop and kapow. Fireworks are on sale after the fourth, buy one get 700 free. The only way to dispose of the things is to blow them up. Clearly, my fellow Americans have never seen the dummy getting his arm blown off or the watermelon exploding as a demonstration of what happens to one's head. I live near a bunch of people that like living on the edge, or perhaps have stumps instead of arms.
So I'm looking forward to August. Sweet, quiet August when I can once again exercise my freedom from your noise.