Let Your Colors Burst

Baby, you're a firework
Come on, let your colors burst — Firework, by Katy Perry

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who love fireworks and those who have fizzled. I'm not a huge fan of the Fourth of July since my parents moved to Florida. It seems like we're always scrambling for something fun to do and never quite getting it together. My youngest boys are now in the high school marching band, which makes our local parade a lot more fun than it used to be, but that's damning with faint praise. I do love the fireworks, though, which our town does well, right over the lake, just a five minute walk from my house.

When I was a kid, we went to see fireworks every year in Michigan, battling the mosquitoes and walking what seemed like long distances for short shows, but I still loved it, and I thought the rest of my family did, too. Turns out not so much as far as my dad is concerned, who has long since turned to watching the pale imitation of televised fireworks from Washington, DC.

It's so not the same.

Beautiful, etherial, loud, and gaudy, fireworks can only truly be enjoyed live and in person. They are not better on a giant scoreboard or in slow-motion instant replay. You cannot capture their essence on film or digital images, in still or moving pictures.

I love the thrill of the booms and bangs as the sound ricochets off the buildings and rumbles up through the ground straight into my heart. I love the glittering lights and jeweled colors, the smell of the gun powder, and the spidery smoke entrails left behind. I love the collective oohs and aahs of the crowd. While others are ignited by the grand finale, that explosive bouquet at the end, I prefer the individual blooms earlier in the show, so I can pay complete attention to every detail, comparing one to the next.

And that is the best part about fireworks. It is one of the few remaining activities in life that requires you to be absolutely in the moment…because if you're not, you'll miss it. You have to be right there, right then to see and hear and smell and feel the brief burst of joy that only a firework can offer.

Our life is full of missed moments when we're too busy to pay attention. The long Fourth of July weekend is over, but I'm grateful that the pyrotechnics of the holiday once again have reminded me to enjoy our short summer before it flames out, too.

Hope you had a great Fourth. Did you celebrate with fireworks?

Hotter Than a Match Head

From the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood: 

Younger Caro: Ugh. There's not a single goddamn breeze in Lousiana. 
Younger Necie Kelleher: Someone please wring me out? 
Younger Vivi: We cannot just sit here and puddle. We have to make our own goddamn breeze. 

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who love summer—heat and all—and those who live for air conditioning. It's definitely been a hot town this summer in the city of Chicago. But am I complaining? No I am not. You see, I like to complain about the cold in February and it seems to me more than just a bit hypocritical to also complain about summer heat.

Don't get me wrong. When the the power went out for a good part of the day on Wednesday with the thermometer popping over the 100° mark, I wasn't thrilled to be without even a bedroom airconditioner (or the idea of losing a couple of hundred dollars worth of groceries). But the ComEd guys came to the rescue, working well past 9:00 p.m. on the 4th of July to replace one of the transformers in our alley and getting us back on the grid by the time the fireworks were over. We gave them a standing ovation (the linemen, not the fireworks, although those were good, too).

Despite the anomaly of the 2011-2012 winter, November through mid March tends to be long and cold here in the midwest (my brother would say October through May, but he's turned into a California weather wimp). And I know mild winters and hot, dry summers are sure signs that Al Gore is right and that we should be way passed panicking about Global Warming, because it's already upon us. But I still like long, hot summer days.

I usually boil myself in the shower or bath until I'm lobster red, but on a hot, hot day, there's nothing like washing the dirt and grit off the back of your neck in a cold (OK, cool) shower. Or diving into a pool or lake. Or running through a sprinkler. Or getting caught is a flash thundershower. These are pleasures that can't be replicated on those temperate days so touted by San Franciscans and San Diegons. Sometimes you just need hot, hot to wring the joy out of cold, cold.

Cold, cold movie theaters.
Cold, cold lemonade.
Cold, cold popsicles that drip down your chin.

In regular summers, most airconditioned spaces are just too cold. Why would I want to wear a sweater in the middle of July?

In regular summers, lemonade is just a sugary-sweet drink that makes my teeth feel fuzzy.

In regular summers, a plain old popsicle just doesn't compare to Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Crunch®. But on a hot, hot day, a popsicle wins hands down.

And to those of you howling about the dog days of summer, don't just sit there and puddle. Go out and make your own goddamn breeze. Or come February, don't come crying to me.

What's your favorite summer cooler? Tell me in a comment.