A few years ago, I remarked when listening to the cacophony of fireworks exploding in the same suburban neighborhood that I was in this past weekend that “this is what it must be like living in Iraq.” Well, this past July 4th made me feel like I was in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, the unruly Chinese province that is in the news now and every other war zone in the world combined for a few hours.
There was the pop-pop-pop of firecrackers, the whistling and bang of bottle rockets and the boom and eventual crack of larger fireworks. As the tree cover was dense, you could rarely actually see what was exploding and the noise lasted for hours and hours and hours.
What I experienced was not the “oohs and ahhs” I experience normally while watching a nice, big professional display and instead of enjoying the explosions, I actually found them frightening. I never knew how far away the explosions were or if one shell or rocket was going to go off in an errant direction and possibly land in my backyard, hit the house or even somehow hit me. I never knew if my dog was going to start to howl and therefore wake up my sleeping and oh-so-tired daughter or if some of the explosions were going to wake her up outright.
This non-stop noise once again made me think about war, about how there are many places in the world where war is either raging or where it could break out at a moments notice and how supremely lucky I am to be an American because all else being equal, I’m pretty sure that a sustained war will not be fought on these shores and in my backyard anytime soon.
July 4th has therefore turned into another form of Thanksgiving. I get to experience a pseudo-war zone, where there are explosions for sport, clay pigeons – no harm, no fowl – with a bit of danger thrown in because you don’t know if the person aiming at the bird is blind, for 1 day a year in order to appreciate the fact that I don’t live in a real war zone for the other 364 days of the year.
For that, I am very thankful.
