The Suitcase Lady

Pyromaniac

July 4, 2007, 12:28 am

One night each year my gentle, soft-spoken, peace-loving husband turns into a total pyromaniac. That night is the Fourth of July.

The preparations start about three weeks ahead of the grand day when we take a 40 mile drive to the fireworks superstore. I admit to enjoying the exuberant, graphic art of the fireworks packaging. Names such as “Tears in Heaven” and “Fishbowl Commotion” are intriguing. But that’s not the real reason I tag along. I go to make sure my spouse doesn’t buy anything he can’t lift.

He’s happy as a cat at a mouse convention making his selections. He’s also serious about getting the most bang for his buck… literally. Wimpy little cherry bombs and sparklers are not on his shopping list.

The size of our purchases always entitles us to a “free” gift or two. That’s how we acquired more beach balls than a Sandals Resort, numerous T-Shirts that say “Light Me Up” and a case of 100 Super-Charged Crackers. (How we disposed of these is a separate story.)

You are all invited to the glorious show. Just bring your folding chairs, blankets and marshmallows down to our beach at dusk on the Fourth.

My husband used to provide one solid hour of non-stop aerial wonders until I gently reminded him that most people might find this a bit much. So he cut back the show to a half hour and tripled the size of the displays.

I can only hope that the garage doesn’t blow-up before the big night.

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