We're headed back to the farm this weekend (yes, the one with all the cows) for a family reunion.  This evening, I wondered aloud at the spectacle Brian and his brother might create with fireworks.

Brian:  It's nothing compared to my uncle.  One year he had driven home long-distance for a 4th of July party, stopping at every fireworks stand along the way.  He picked the biggest and best at every shop.  By the end of the trip, he had a huge garbage bag of fireworks.

Jennie:  What happened?

Brian:  Everything was great until the second one took a bad hop and landed in the garbage bag.

Jennie:  (laughs)

Brian:  He set the lawn on fire.

Jennie:  (still laughing)  Oh god, please stop.  I've peed my pants!  (the 3rd trimester sucks, y'all.)

My own family has a very long tradition of setting various patches of grass on fire on the 4th of July.  Some collateral damage includes hearing loss, heart palpitations, burned fingers, and a large orange glow in the far woods of a nearby house, where the garden hose couldn't possibly reach.  But I'll never forget the year we let a 5-year old boy hold a 5-ball Roman Candle, and after the first one we all made the obligatory "ooooh" noises, whereupon the 5-year old turned to us, proud of his handiwork, with a giant grin on his face and the Roman Candle aimed at us.  

You've never seen a bunch of ladies hit the deck that fast.  

This year we've been told that fireworks on the farm are allowed, within very reasonable limits on after-show cleanup.  That basically leaves giant cannon shots that can be seen for miles.  

This should be a very interesting holiday.

But with all the commotion, the cows will probably stay far away, and I won't get to take lots of pictures of them.  And that, Dear Reader, will be a win-win for you.

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