Klowns in my Koffee

I love fireworks. Every year, we go to the Summer Festival in our community one week before the Fourth of July. We lie on our big blanket on the grassy hill and battle mosquitoes beneath the rocket's red glare. [Factoid: The Minneapolis White Pages lists one Rockets Redglare. I learned this from a former co-worker, a packaging engineer named Elaine at Honeywell, during a break from a dull meeting. It's funny how you carry a piece of trivia like that around with you for years. I researched Ms. Redglare today and found that she's an ordained minister, yoga enthusiast and spiritual healer. The former Cynthia's new name came to her during a fasting vision quest. I've thought of fasting for spiritual clarity but haven't gotten past visions of lunch.]

The annual fireworks are a touchpoint for me, a brief, fiery time to contemplate the changes brought by the year that has passed since the last time we were there.

This year, the Summer Festival was rained out. And when the Fourth rolled around, somehow we didn't get into the car to go to one of the neighboring communities. We had some fireworks from a trip through Wisconsin and set a few of them off in the street in front of the house. The kids hopped up and down on the front porch chanting, "Our neighbors love us."



This isn't quite the same as being there, though impressive on a technical level. I guess I'll contemplate at a different time. My only gigantic insight so far is that the best fireworks must be in Boston. So much for fasting.