Only 8 days until the 4th of July! Woot! Let’s all get drunk and blow things up! LOL

This year’s Festivus, our annual summer party/barbecue/fireworks show will be considerably more subdued, due to various factors. Oh well, we have a box of stuff leftover from years past that should get lit before they get too old to blow (gawd, I hope that never happens to me).

Eldest Son, who began this tradition a decade ago, is busy movin’ into his recently purchased home.
*Sniffle* {insert Proud Mother Moment}

Middle Son will be a thousand miles away, trying hard to look Emo cool in the California sunshine. He’s off on Thee - Me’s Big Adventure to the Left Coast.
“Thee” is a friend of his who has roots in L.A.
Friend travels back each summer to visit his granny.
(Aww, what a good boy.) And to watch a Dodgers game - LOL

This year, he asked Son if he would like to fly along, and see the sights. Son has never flown on an airliner, and figured it was high time *snicker* to see the world from 35,000 feet up.

So they’re leavin’ on a jet plane come mornin’.
*Sniffle* {insert Weepy Mother Moment}

They won’t return until July 5th.

Husband is drivin’ ‘em to the airport, that oughta be a hoot. Two sleep deprived lads (‘cause you know they’re gonna be up half the night, and they have to be AT the airport at 5 AM) being regaled by world traveler tales from his Pa, who is used to being up at the buttcrack of dawn.

Ah, but in years gone by…

Awaiting his senior year of high school, Eldest Son was working at McDonald’s. (A family tradition *snicker*)

As Independence Day approached, several of his co-workers complained of the dual insult of having to work on the holiday, and having no place to celebrate with fireworks (You know how males delight in bein’ able to blow things up) since many of their cities had banned them.

Eldest Son devised a solution to both problems, by inviting his co-workers and several friends to our home for a celebration he dubbed “Festivus” (from the TV show “Seinfeld”) which would be held on July 3, a day everyone could get away from work and family commitments for the actual holiday.

Since we live in an unincorporated area, outside of city limits, the fireworks ban did not apply (still doesn’t- woo-hoo!). He let me know, that morning, of his plans. (Is procrastination genetic?)

Eldest Son asked us to provide the dozen or so guys he’d invited with burgers and hot dogs, saying he would take care of everything else. Eldest Son’s Best Friend, used his car’s sound system for the evening’s entertainment.

Unbeknownst to us, (in the beginning) was the use of his car’s vodka supply. After a few hours, Best Friend was vomiting profusely. When I investigated his condition, Eldest Son assured me that it was no cause for alarm. “He gets drunk every weekend, and then throws up,” Eldest Son stated calmly. “We’ve learned to lay him at the top of a hill so it runs away from him.”

Ah, youth. LOL

I’d been drinkin’ in college when I was 18, so I was fighting the hypocritical urge to protest.

“Where did he get the liquor?” I asked.

“His mom bought it for him,” was Son’s reply. “She’s been buying it for him for a couple of years.”

“He’s been drinking since he was 16?” I asked, still trying not to over-react. (Mental narrator, with Australian accent, like the Crocodile Hunter, “We seem to ‘ave won the confidence of this young male of the species, but must exercise great caution, lest we frighten ‘im away”)

It worked.

“No, he’s been drinking since he was 14, but she got tired of him stealing her booze, so she started buying it for him. You don’t have to worry Ma, I know how to take care of him…and see, I have his car keys.”

Oh well then..fourteen?? {Insert motherly head shake}

The next year the crowd grew, the sound system was upgraded to a large stereo, and I invited Best Friend’s mother and sister (who was the same age as Middle Son - 11).

Best Friend’s mother was an alcoholic divorcee with a raunchy sense of humor. I asked her for her car keys and she said, “Well, what am I supposed to do…sleep in the car?” Before I could answer she said, “What the hell, it won’t be the first time!”

Her daughter was a rural Lolita. Wearing full makeup, clad in incredibly short cut-offs (AKA Daisy Dukes LOL), with her midriff bared by a shirt tied under her budding breasts, she entranced Middle Son.

I watched as his first flush of lust overcame him, his eyes growing wide, and other parts of his anatomy also growing. I chuckled to myself as he ducked behind a car, waiting for the tide to subside.

Daughter, although quite shy, clapped her hands to the music, and watched in fascination as the “big kids” danced and laughed.

Planning improved every summer. We started ordering a port-a-potty. Eldest Son lined up a live band. We set out more lawn chairs and picnic tables, and lit several tiki torches and citronella bug buckets (large metal pails that contain candles which are mosquito but not cat repellent…see slightly scorched paws for details LOL)

We continued to provide the BBQ’d burgers, hot dogs, and sodees (Pepsi, Sprite, etc., for those unfamiliar with hillbillyese).

Each year, the fireworks display grew. Husband loved it. (You know how males delight in bein’ able to blow things up LOL)

One year an exceptionally rowdy drunk, (oddly, not Best Friend) got naked, pulled a tiki torch out of the ground and ran circles around the crowd, claiming he was carrying the Olympic flame. City boys…sheesh. Ya learn fast that no matter how drunk you are, fallin’ down naked on in a thistle patch ain’t no fun.

Last year was quieter. Eldest Son was working. Husband was putting in long hours and had to rise before the sun.

As evening drew near, the four of us loaded up the cooler, fireworks, etc. and drove out to the field. The sun was just setting, and the full moon was rising. The valley sky was aflame with aerial displays. The view was spectacular. In every direction, the sky sparkled.

But the ghosts of Festivus past refused to remain silent. Middle Son muttered how he missed the band. Daughter declared us a boring lot. Husband’s propane torch, perfect for lighting multiple fuses almost simultaneously, was igniting sporadically, slowing the progress of the mortar fireworks launches.

Although we praised every burst, it wasn’t the same as the testosterone-filled, back-slapping, “Awesome! Way to go dude - your dad is really cool!” accolades of years gone by.

By 10 PM, the kids were asking if they could go back to the house. After carrying the cooler back inside, Husband went straight to bed. I stepped back out on the front porch, and stared at the sky. A fireball roared upward on the horizon, and exploded, the glittering embers burning out and falling back to earth. It mirrored my emotions, and a single tear rolled down my cheek.

Still, eternal optimist that I am, I have not lost faith. There is always next year, another opportunity to blow things up. I suppose I felt a page turning, like the end of an era, which even when anticipated, comes as a shock. I must remind myself that what was before, won’t always be, but what will follow may be even better. And as always, hope for the best. I wonder what it would take to get all of you here next year?

Hmmm… let’s see….

4th of july
fireworks

Categories: Special Days, Family