Wandering around Pinellas Park on a sleepy, lazy, post-tonsil-infection Fourth, Alabama-grown CCB and I took in various amateur fireworks displays raining pretty-colored embers on the surrounding neighborhoods.
Incidentally, though I used to enjoy a pious view of Sarasota’s pyrotechnics from the Church of the Redeemer’s picnic, recent Independence Day celebrations have occurred at the annual hockey party in BFE Thonotosassa, wherein liquored-up hockey players fire mortars in the middle of the woods, then wonder at the unburned presence of everyone’s fingers.
And after a fireworks display from which you’re lucky to escape alive, the illegality of a few well-supervised bottle rockets within easy reach of 20 different garden hoses seems downright piddling.
Then again, at post-hockey Applebee’s on Sunday, I’m sure to hear Coach Mr. Harrible’s harrowing tales of his Forth-of-July firefighter shift in Venice. (I imagine the score sheet looks something like this: Brush fire; brush fire; burn; brush fire; severed finger; burn; brush fire; brush fire; heart attack; dislodged retina; brush fire; burn.) Maybe a little fireworks enforcement wouldn’t be such a bad thing. But for the time being, it sure is fun to watch the bombs bursting in air—from a safe distance, that is.