First, I'll explain that, in my city, fireworks are totally illegal. You can get fined for even setting off Whistling Pete's. Because of this total ban on the sulfuric favorites of 4th of July celebrations, I know nothing of fireworks.
On the other hand, my boyfriend's hometown allows some fireworks to be shot off, and his block has a firework show every year, with chips and hot dogs and beer for everyone along with some no-quite-legal fireworks. And he used to work the fireworks stand the local high school marching band put up, so he learned a thing or two about the different chemicals used, if for no other reason than it was a cool, geeky thing to learn and... well... Matt's always been the geek of my life, he was no different as a teenager.
But they have one rule: no fireworks in the park. So when I wanted to get away from the noise, I suggested we take a walk down the street to Teewinkle Park.
No such escape. There were more fireworks being set off at the park than any of the small cul-de-sacs we passed walking there. Dozens of families had come.... and so had the police.
Took them a while to arrive, I must say, but they chased the majority off with a stiff warning, while Matt and I watched with laughs during our romantic walk through the pines and around the lake. And so they packed up and left.
And then came more. In came the helicopters, who flew around checking out the local parks to inforce the law. Just strange to see such militant enforcement over something meant to be done in fun and for patriotic expression. And so they left. And yet more came after them. These late comers got the actual fine. Poor guys, no warning at all, they just thought to stay at home a little later.
Fireworks simply do not belong in suburbia. So where do they belong? Good question, one I do not have an answer to. Something explosive, meant to be used in warfare, should not be wrapped as a flashy toy and set in the hands of four-year-olds, or suburban dumbheads.
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