“Ok, you guys get out there and pick up all that fireworks mess from last night! And don’t forget the parachutes in the neighbors’ yards. Put some water on that burned spot and maybe the grass will grow back. Take all the stuff that wasn’t damaged out of the storage shed and put a tarp over it. Load the burned stuff in the pick-up and we’ll drop it off at the dump on the way to the lumber yard. I’ll go look for the dog. When I get back we’ll start putting a new roof on the shed.”
Aah, the rituals continue. The post Fourth of July rituals are not unlike cleaning up the battlefield must have been after the chaos of battle had ebbed and the outcome had been decided. One notable exception we can hope for these days is a lack of blood and no wounded crying for help or corpses needing burial although that thought did occur when my neighbor was actually lighting the ordinance. The young ones were squealing with delight as the fuse finally surrendered to the glowing punk and began hissing and sparking on its way to its cataclysmic finale’. Senses dulled by alcohol, he barely had time to put his lighter in his pocket, whirl and stumble into a heap before the deafening explosion. Fortunately, the burns were minor and the paramedic thought the pain in his left eye was from bumping it when he fell rather than from shrapnel from the blast, so no permanent damage was done. A few more beers and he won’t even remember until tomorrow afternoon when he wakes up. I love having neighbors over for the Fourth.
The Fourth is exhilarating as it should be. A holiday born in defiance, then tempered by the conflict and carnage of war sanctified by victory and finally memorialized by the birth of the greatest nation ever founded on this earth. Who could not be moved to self-sacrifice and patriotic rededication. But the Fifth of July, the great let-down, or should I say wind down, is more peaceful, perhaps like the day of rest after one of the epic battles that actually won our independence. A day to reflect on what has actually taken place, clean up the spent ordinance, (“Didn’t I tell you to pick up those parachutes? Yes, officer, I do have a permit and I’ll pick that stuff up right now and apologize to Mrs. Johnson right away. I don’t think there is any reason to write a citation.”), and of course, replace the roof that burned off of the storage shed. Stupid bottle rockets should be banned. I wonder, with a recession in full swing and unemployment so high, why do people spend so much on something that is so temporary. One could say a flash in the pan. (“That reminds me, how did the bottom of the dog’s water dish get so rounded that it won’t stand up any more? A cherry bomb? Thirty feet in the air? We used to use tin cans.”) Why did I spend so much? As I drive the final screw into the new roofing on the storage shed, the ultimate Fifth of July question pops into my mind, “Will the dog ever come home?”
Stupid phone, “Hello, Animal Control? Oh you found him? Thank God. Yes, he has had rabies shots. Ok, I’ll bring the certificate right down. A hundred and ten dollars? I’ll have to stop by the ATM. I’ll be there to pick him up soon.”
The battle is over. The ordinance is cleaned up. The damage has been repaired. The hostages ransomed and the wounded? Well, it looks like they’re just now waking up.
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