Boom boom

I worked out that Saturday was my 10th of the last 11 Independence Days that I have celebrated outside the the US of A. Or rather not celebrated; some years, particularly when I had to work, the day just passed me by. I did have a BBQ this year with some other ex-pats, a number of them working some vague jobs in the embassy that probably involves spiriting people away to Gitmo in the dead of the night, who kept complaining in their twangy Southern voices how shit living abroad was. Well, Cletus, get your ass back to the States, then.

Being a former East Coast liberal (East Coast former, not liberal former), the holiday wasn't really for me in the way that Christmas isn't really for the adults. As kids enjoy the Yuletide more, the 4th of July is more for guys named Jim Bob who drive pick-ups with gun racks and get misty-eyed belting out the opening words of The Star Spangled Banner.

Still, I did enjoy the Fourth as a kid, because it was the one time of year in fireworks-prohibited Massachusetts when we could readily get our hands on some ordnance. The names of those fireworks still trigger some sort of illicit giddiness, and I can practically smell the cordite: Roman candles, quarter milers, cherry bombs. A favourite was Chinese hoppers, the size of a AAA battery, which shot a jet of flame out of a hole on the side when lit, causing them to spin and bounce merrily. We used to throw them at each other. What larks!

But, ultimately what appealed most was the pure destructive power of the M-80, which was a quarter stick of dynamite. My brother and I used to tape four together and giggle "Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?" whenever we blew something up. We did once attach 20 M80s together, ringing them around Mr Arroyo's abandoned shed. I do remember thinking as we watched the fire department hose down the wreckage of the burning shed a little later from our hiding place in the woods, that maybe, just maybe, a fireworks ban is a good idea.