"We'll stay inside and drink a glass of champagne," said my British friend Norma, describing her post-church activities this morning. Not a bad plan for the 4th of July when temperatures threaten to hit 96 degrees.
I, on the other hand, will be attending a cookout at my parents' house. It will be not unlike the 4ths we had growing up, though today I eat my hamburger on a bun and will pass on the root beer and sparklers (unless the sparklers in question are champagne). We might make it home in time to catch the fireworks downtown from the parking lot of the Rotunda or we may just hear the booms and see a few flickers through the trees in the park across the street.
Because I'm lazy. I want fireworks to come to me, like they did when we lived in Chicago. On any given 4th (and 3rd and possibly 5th) of July, we could see fireworks displays from the beach, looking north over Lake Michigan towards Evanston or from our 6th floor apartment window looking north and west towards Skokie. One year when it seemed like fireworks were exploding in every direction (including on the beach below, care of my rock star neighbors, Ed and Roxie), I moved the old green armchair to face the window, propped my feet on the radiator, and listened to Pretzel Logic as we watched blue chrysanthemums burst and silvery fish swim in the sky. Come to think of it, it's a given that we'll be listening to some Steely Dan tonight too.
May your holiday sparkle in whatever way pleases you best. Shalom.
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