Before we went to the lake for the 4th of July, we drove over to a fireworks stand near Luxora to buy a sackful of Roman candles, bottle rockets, stink bombs, and Black Cats. We carried them with us like luggage, as though we couldn’t buy sparklers in Mountain Home.
How the whole bag didn’t combust when we stopped for butterscotch malts in Lake City was a great mystery to me. In the time it took the Tastee Freeze waitress to whip up our orders and slide them through the window, Momma’s car morphed into an oven. We could have baked chocolate chip cookies on the dashboard, if we’d better planned.
We shot our fireworks from the dock which was a three for one deal—the initial explosion, the echo through the cove, the reflection over the water. Sometimes we watched the official fireworks show at one of the marinas but truth be told, our own private party was more fun.
Last night, the fireworks began around our home. Kabobs resonated from the mountains as though they came three houses down. Unamused, Lucy and Annabelle barked and howled, more noise than harmony.
This morning, I look for fireworks in the garden. Explosions of color from nature.
I may still take in some fireworks, eat pie and ice cream, twirl a sparkler or three.
Wishing you a safe, happy 4th of July filled with all the good things.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.
The Band Perry, Gentle on My Mind