not quite the same . . .

Kidlet and I were all set to go see the local fireworks last night.  Traditionally, the three of us would pack up our portable chairs, find a place within reasonable walking distance to park . . .  anything under two miles is fair game . . . and trek down to the river to wait for the show.  Our little burg throws quite the party.  At each of the four corners of the bridge spanning the inter-coastal, a different flavor attacks the senses.  You can try rock or jazz but we prefer the southwest corner full of country music, ribs and beer.  Ask Kidlet about the year she got an autograph from a very young and up and coming Dierks Bentley. 

We have our spot.  Under a tree on a little rise and stake our claim among the herds of locals and play our standard game:  who knows the most people.  The 9TS always won.  As the sun drops, we'd watch the kids scamper about with their snap-on neon lit necklaces, red, white and blue spinners, listen to Lee Greenwood and Toby Keith sing their patriotic canned best and enjoy the general chaos.

Finally, the barge, dimly lit, out on the water would come into focus and the sound and sites would begin with a resounding crescendo and a thumping, designed to realign the beating of your heart.  Let the show begin.  Huge weeping willows of gold and silver, red hearts, exploding multitudes of light and sounds.  For twenty five minutes we sat rapt in the glory that is the celebration of our country and then, as quickly as it started, it was over and we would pack up our chairs, fight the crowds, get stuck in traffic and finally, head home.  another fourth well done.

This year be it lethargy or general miasma, I wasn't all that excited but Kidlet announced we were going.  While she was splashing in the shower, I stayed immersed in a back to back marathon of Twilight Zone episodes I had not seen since I was eleven-ish.  One of my favorites:  Terror at 20,000 Feet was coming to an end as Kidlet was dragging me off of my bed.

We piled in the CRV she stole from me when she learned to drive at 15 . . .  I have only had visitation rights since . . . and headed to the river.  We were late and the display has already started.  Breaking tradition in a big way, we parked in the lot of a local furniture store a half mile from the show and enjoyed the fireworks.  Kidlet grabbed my paw to let me know that although we were slothless, we were still together and that was more than enough.  When did she get so wise.

She dropped me off at home and headed to Steak and Shake for some sustenance.  Upon her return, smelling vaguely of fried onion rings and burgers, she fired up Netflix and together we watched Terror at 20,000 Feet . . . a show that still causes me to carefully open the curtains on planes.  And while on a roll, I introduced Kidlet to Little Girl Lost, the show responsible for me testing the solidity of the wall behind my bed for eons.    

Her take on my generation's, version of the supernatural was quite jaded as she pointed out the fallacy of anyone being allowed to board a plane with a gun clearly visible.  Ah, my little grasshopper times have changed. 

And maybe next year I will be up for heading to our southwest corner and curl back up under that tree. But for now, I will be happy holding hands with my Kidlet and forging new traditions.