Fireworks and the Three-Legged Dog

What would Summer be without a rousing July 4th celebration in all it's Norman Rockwell-inspired regalia? The smoky taste of something char-grilled. The sticky coolness of watermelon juice sliding down your chin. And--the proverbial icing on the Independence Day cake--a mighty fireworks display.

Of course, my family is more than a decade removed from the days Dad hoisted us, one by one, atop the Chevy station wagon. There, we crouched together to watch the sky light up again and again, each colorful explosion spraying out ribbons of fire that disappeared with sizzle and smoke over the cool Susquehanna.

This year, my parents listened and laughed as my grown-up siblings and I swapped more recent and less-than-perfect Independence Day experiences. My favorite, as told by youngest brother and family comedian, Patrick, painted a much less Rockwellian picture. Pat and his fiance had been more distracted by the cast of characters surrounding them than the fireworks show itself.

To set the stage, the soundtrack was that of screaming children, frequently punctuated by the shrill voice of an overexcited mother who insisted on calling out the "bow tie"-shaped fireworks every time they appeared in the sky. After ten or so bow tie fireworks, Pat was no longer amused. As he focused, once again, on inspiring some sense of romance before the evening's end by placing an arm around his fiance's slight shoulders, large plumes of cigarette smoke overpowered the light scent of her perfume and settled in toxic clouds around their tidy blanket. Finally, the star of the show was an older woman and the three-legged dog she insisted on walking back and forth across the dehydrated grass. Against a backdrop of "Stars and Stripes Forever" and finale of bow tie fireworks, the dog appeared the oddest companion of all to an otherwise celebratory evening. Of course, then again, he was perhaps most befitting.

We all (with the exception of Brangelina) tend to look less like a magazine cover and more like a hot mess on the 4th of July. Even the most perfect 4th of July's are less than valiant. In truth, the brown paint was peeling on that lemon of a station wagon. My dad had to fend off the grumpiness that accompanies bumper-to-bumper fireworks traffic. And I'm pretty sure my other brother, Ian, got more than his share of spankings (for terrorizing his sisters, hanging off the roof, running towards the road, the list continues). But, the mind has a way of scrubbing the memory of such "minor" details. Still, it's a very good thing for us that freedom means we can be who we are, not something we are not. And bravery comes in all shapes and sizes...example given, a small dog with one less leg.

My husband and I decided to be a little less brave this year. After a long day of socializing over July 4th potlucks, we exercised our God-given freedom to stay home for an evening of pay-per-view and A/C. This isn't to say we didn't appreciate the day and what it meant. And, sure, at first we felt like we were copping out. But we figured there would be plenty of fireworks celebrations to brave when we have mini-patriots of our own...and thus will ensue at least a dozen years of fighting traffic, enduring crowds and combing for the "perfect spot," a small patch of itchy grass. We are thankful for that small patch of grass. And the one on which our house sits, too. It isn't always Rockwellian, but it's home. On this, our July 4th, 2010, the perfect spot was our microfiber couch. We suffered less bug bites there.

God bless America, and God bless all the three-legged dogs.