So, this past spring as we drove home and Jerry carried the mother load of all mother loads of fireworks out to the car, I began my anticipated panic for the actual event.
On the morning after, I can happily report that all limbs and digits are still attached and except for one miss-fired bomb-thingy that literally hit the house across the street, there were no big fires (that where caused by us, anyway!). I have to say, my favorite thing of the whole night was to watch Mike (Sue's husband, and Jerry's pyromania cohort in the annual 4th of July fright night) right after a big one just went off. Every time, without fail and with the pure and unfeigned excitement of a kid on Christmas morning, he turns and says, "That was cool!" (Sorry, Sue, I don't mean to encourage it, it is just so fun to watch!) I tried to get a picture of those moments, but none of the pictures do it justice, so you'll just have to take my word for it.
Of course while of this excitement on the male end is happening and the kids are cheering, the wives are sitting, huddled together with a collective gasp at each new ignition and the silent prayer that all limbs be spared (or at least the ones needed to perform the surgeries that produce our livelyhood!) for just one more round.