When it comes to fun anywhere, it’s hard to beat kids and the Fourth of July.
This year, I was struck by how many times I screamed “Neva, be careful!” or “Jax, watch out!” only to hear my children’s voices in the background saying “Mom, settle down, they are OK.”
Do we get more risk-adverse as we grow older? Or do we simply become more aware of all the dangers that lurk out there and how vulnerable are the tiny flesh-and-blood bodies of those small people on whom we pin our best hope of a legacy?
I’m sure that I was nowhere near as scared that one of my kids would blow off their fingers as I am scared one of my grandkids will. Did I not notice as much? Was I less aware of the danger? Or am I simply more cautious?
It’s probably a combination of things. I just know that the Fourth of July on the cul-de-sac where my daughter lives with her four kids was about the greatest place you can imagine for fireworks on the Fourth.
Small towns tend not to have as many nervous residents or as many restrictions on what you can fire off. The area where my daughter lives is kind of “what you are comfortable with” and some folks are comfortable with big bombs bursting in air.
I have to admit to jumping at the closeness of the “artillery” a couple of times but it was pretty doggone awesome to sit there in a lawn chair with fireworks bursting the sky all around. The display in this neighborhood was amazing and awesome and wonderful.
And it didn’t hurt a bit that a neighbor down the street had a spotlight on an American flag that time after time was backlit by the fireworks, much the same way that “Star Spangled Banner” must have looked in far less friendly times long, long ago.