The glaring sun burst through my bedroom window and flooded the room. The rain had subsided, promising an eventful day of celebration. It was the Fourth of July and the plans that were made earlier began to unfold immediately. I rushed to get dressed and then left the house in plenty of time to get to the parade in Indian Hills. There I sat at the side of the road, watching the fire trucks roll by, along with vintage cars and trucks. My friends had preceded me and were well-prepared with lawn chairs and even a thermos filled with Bloody Marys.
The parade didn’t last long. The thrill was watching people spray each other with water cannons, some even reaching out to the crowd with intent to soak everyone to the bone. Somehow my mission to stay dry worked out just fine and I was able to comfort Juba my dog and keep him dry as well. We had parked the Jeep close by so we could take leave after all the merrymaking was finished. Our attempts to celebrate came to fruition and we headed home.
Once home I got to work preparing my famous baked beans. The recipe came straight from my mother and I always enjoyed the process that guaranteed a delicious result. We had made plans to attend a party later that day and then take in some fireworks. The car, beans and other foods were loaded by 3:00 in the afternoon, and we took off down the dirt road that lead from my mountain home. However, our drive was radically interrupted when the beans dumped upside down and spilled all over the floor of the car. My partner, Lee, informed me of the spill and I was not too happy.
Once we arrived at our destination we busied ourselves with the cleaning of the car. So much for baked beans…they were ruined. Nonetheless, after servicing the area and mopping up the mess, we were ready to party. The celebration was grand and there were tons of people there. My beans weren’t missed, as the amount of food there for the taking was overwhelming. Everyone was happy and conversations flowed for hours.
It was about 7:30 when the guests gathered their belongings and readied themselves for the jaunt to Black Hawk. Our leaders, the couple who hosted the party, were savvy to the whole mountain area and knew the very best place to watch the fireworks. Our crowd was hefty and many of us sat together, prepared to take in the magical show. Sure enough, just after 9:00 the display began. As it turned out, we were sitting directly beneath the shower of lights. I can’t say enough about the experience, for it was just short of magic.
There we were with thousands of lights raining down on us. It was sensational to look up and wonder if any of the brilliance would actually touch us. For over one hour I was taken aback and offered no dialogue. All I could do was remember where I was and the worth of that great song that carries the relevance of our country. Reflecting on every word, I was swallowed by the “rockets’ red glare and the bombs bursting in air.”
