Fireworks!

It hasn’t been a particularly quiet week in town.  The tourist traffic has been picking up as people from near and far scurry to head up Highway 212 to Yellowstone National Park over the Beartooth Pass.  Charles Kuralt said that the Beartooth Pass was “the most beautiful drive in America”.  I would not argue with Charles.  It is beautiful.  In my estimation it would be more beautiful without all the tourists.  I do not get a say in the matter and besides it is the economic lifeline for some of the communities along the way.  People need to make a living even if it is an inconvenience to others.  Despite the increased noise from all the motorcycles and recreational vehicles burning up the pavement through town . . . it has been a fairly quiet week in town despite the Fourth of July observance lurking down the road. 

Life has been good.  The weather has been cooperative and mild, allowing folks to get out in their yards.  Grass is greening up.  Flowers have been rallying and blooming to create a feast of color.  The birds are singing up a storm.  People are walking their dogs allowing them the opportunity to check out the daily “pee mail” and send return messages.  Vacation Bible School is happening at one of the local churches—a respite for harried parents tired of hearing the chorus, “I’m bored!” from their children.  Life is ambling along in town as summer kicks off and establishes itself for the next couple of months.  The pace is slow and easy.  Life is good.

 

Or at least it was.

 

Small towns thrive on “word of mouth”.  Whether true or not, community members get their information through the grapevine—casual conversations at the post office or bank, while pumping fuel at the gas station, sharing a meal at the senior center, coming out of the grocery store, or talking around coffee during fellowship following church—wherever people gather.  Rarely is it through “official” channels.  Often it is “I heard . . .”  Some might call it “gossip” but around here and other small towns it is the “line of communication”

 

Even though town council meetings are regularly scheduled happenings announced to the community—date, time, location, and agenda—they always seem to come as a surprise to the locals.  That’s what happened this week interrupting the tranquility and quietness with great grumbling and lament—near biblical proportions, I might add.  At its monthly meeting the council met, discussed, and decided that there would be no fireworks within the town limits this Fourth of July.  Zero fireworks.  They made their decision based on an increased fire hazard in the area . . . after all we have entered the “fire season” in Montana.  The resolution was on the public agenda made available and posted in public places two weeks prior to the meeting.  It was there for all to see.  Beyond those obligated to be there—council members and town employees—no one else attended.  The decision was made.  On Wednesday morning it was announced: NO FIREWORKS. 

 

That set the fireworks off—symbolically speaking.

 

Since the news went public the moaning, groaning, and whining have escalated.  The keyboard warriors have been burning up the town’s Facebook page.  Cries of government oppression!  Freedom denied!  Civil rights trampled upon!   Conspiracy abounds!  Those damn liberal Democrats! Which is a weird one when I am fairly certain that the whole town council is Republican.  Forced Communism and Socialism!  Social media has exploded and gone wild with the loudest complaints, not being townspeople or even from the state of Montana.  Accusations of secretly railroading the resolution through were made even though—like clockwork—the council put the agenda out two weeks prior to the meeting.  Apparently, no one reads it.  It hadn’t hit the gossip mill.  The people felt blindsided.

 

Truth be told, I believe that those who lament the loudest are in the minority.  It was a long time coming.  The complaints had been piling up for years.  In town there are several veterans with PTSD who leave the week of Fourth of July to avoid reoccurring trauma.  The noise and constant booming of the fireworks trigger flashbacks to their war experience.  Pet owners complained.  Pets run off and get lost . . . they hide under beds and other furniture . . . their anxiety shoots through the roof.  Owners book their pets into out-of-town kennels, purchase drugs to calm their nerves, or pack them up and head out of town for a few days.  Fireworks are hell on pets.  Parents of small children, especially infants—have spoken up . . . they cannot get their little ones to sleep.  The elderly have joined the chorus.  For years there have been more complaints than support.  The handful of pyromaniacs are outnumbered . . .

 

. . . but they whine the loudest.

 

One of the accusations against those who favor the riddance of fireworks is that they are “unpatriotic”.  I never understood that—unpatriotic?  How is blowing up the neighborhood and town “patriotic”?  Flying the American flag is “patriotic”.  Taking part in a parade celebrating the Fourth of July is “patriotic”.  Singing the National Anthem is “patriotic”.  Saying the Pledge of Allegiance is “patriotic”.  Supporting veterans . . . voting in elections . . . attending town council meeting . . . all “patriotic”.  Blowing up the neighborhood or town is not “patriotic” in my book.  Patriotism has nothing to do with fireworks.

 

But it’s the semiquincentennial of our nation!  Our nation’s 250^th birthday.  Most people cannot even pronounce the work much less spell it.  Big deal!  We are another year older.  It doesn’t mean we need to blow something up.  My high school class is celebrating its 50^th reunion this fall.  We are the Class of 1976.  We are not gathering and blowing up something.  We are too old for that.  Instead, we will gather at some venue, eat dinner, drink and listen to our generation’s music, dance a little, while sitting around reminiscing about the “good old days”.  We won’t be comparing explosives and blowing things up.  When I hit my semicentennial birthday, I did not blow up the house or anything else.  I was just happy that I made it to my 50^th birthday.

 

The semiquincentennial is just a marker along the journey.  A point of reference and remembrance.  As a nation we are still working our way down the road—in the big picture of the world, 250 years is not that remarkable.  The United States of America is a mere infant when it comes to longevity and age.  Iran, Egypt, Vietnam, Armenia, North Korea, China, India, Afghanistan, Israel, Greece, Japan, Ethiopia, France Croatia, Norway, and Bulgaria have thousands of years on us—THOUSANDS!  Even the “teens” of civilization—Denmark, Austria, Hungry, Portugal, Switzerland, Spain, the United Kingdom all have a few hundred years on us.  They are amused at our celebration because we are basically the “new kids on the block” at 250 years old.  They don’t understand this fascination of going around blowing things up to celebrate a birthday.

 

There is a crack in the town’s placidness entering the week of the Fourth of July.  There will be no fireworks this year.  For some it will be a black mark on the town’s history.  For the rest it will be the day the noise died.  I count myself among those who will relish the proposed peaceful quietness of a firework-less holiday.  So do my dogs . . . my neighbors with babies . . . the veterans with PTSD . . . and those attempting to go to bed at a decent time.

 

I am thankful to the representatives on the town council who represent our community for revoking fireworks this year.  Thankful that the human quality of taking the easy way out led to no one reading the announcement of the council’s agenda prior to the meeting.  Surprisingly the majority have spoken and announced that there is no need to blow something up to celebrate our nation’s 250th birthday or whatever it is called. Thankful that I can fly my flag, stand for the national anthem, say the pledge, wear red-white-blue to my heart’s content, watch baseball, eat hot dogs, and ride in my Chevrolet, and still be considered a patriot even without fireworks.  As a nation we have come this far so far, but we still have a long way to go.  I am thankful and I didn’t even have to blow anything up.  Yeah, it’s been a semi-quiet week in town and in a couple of weeks we will be back to normal . . . at least until next year’s celebration.

 

The Demise of Sock Monster

It came to my attention the other day that I had not seen him around for quite some time.  I began wondering why he had disappeared.  After all he had been a constant companion on my “grandpa” journey for over a decade . . . then he was gone.  Vanished.  Ka-put.  Gone.  Sadly, I wondered what had happened to my buddy, my partner in crime . . . this sudden demise of Sock Monster. 

The birth of our first grandchild saw the creation of the sock monster.  My companion was not the first of its kind.  No, sock monsters have been around for generations. Probably since the inception of humans wearing socks.  I imagine some adult was tasked with having to watch a crying, screaming baby.  Flustered with the rambunctious child, the adult grabbed a sock lying on the floor, slipped it over his hand, and waved it before the child in a desperate and playful gesture while speaking gibberish.  The child—shocked—quit crying.  The sock monster was born and has been entertaining children ever since . . .

 

. . . quite effectively I might add.

 

At least my sock monster did.  From the beginning, Sock Monster was a big hit with the grandkids.  He elicited laughter . . . giggles . . . and lots of joyful, silly conversation and antics.  He was an anticipated arrival, always popping up when least expected . . . but always welcomed.  He was silly.  Told the worse jokes (dad jokes).  Was always trying to steal a kiss or to tickle the unsuspecting.  The playfulness went on for years . . . over a decade much to the delight of the grandchildren and me.

 

Then one day . . . it was over.  Now I am not an overly sentimental person, but the demise of Sock Monster tugged at the ol’ heart strings.  He was a part of me.  He hung around with me. He was right there . . . beside me.  He understood me and was a major part of helping me fulfill my role as a grandpa.  I kind of miss him.  Even now I can feel a tear wanting to fall.

 

But I understand.  It wasn’t anything he did.  There wasn’t anything that either of us could have done.  It was inevitable.  A part of life . . . a part of growing up.  That was the culprit.  Grandchildren grow up and get older.  With it comes maturity no longer needing the whimsical fantasy of imagination.  There is the fading of those imaginary characters who fill the gaps in a young child’s heart and mind.  All children, including grandchildren, eventually put away their childish toys and ways.  It is only natural.  Sock Monster never had a chance.

 

The signs were there.  Either I missed them or chose to ignore them.  When the youngest two grandchildren no longer squealed with excitement when Sock Monster appeared. . . I should have known.  When they rolled their eyes upon his sudden arrival . . . I should have known.  I should have known, yet at the same time I suppose I wasn’t ready.  Wasn’t ready to let go.  Wasn’t ready to grow up . . . to put away the silliness . . . the tickling . . . the laughter.  With a “oh, Papa”, Sock Monster was eulogized and put to rest.  It was an unspoken “rest in peace”.

 

I understand.  I marvel whenever I am in the presence of my grandchildren.  They are growing and maturing faster than I or the parents want.  They are becoming human beings.  They are exploring what it means to be older and mature.  Moving further down the journey of life.  In that they are leaving behind that which they deem is childish.  That includes Sock Monster.

 

I get it . . . but it doesn’t mean I won’t acknowledge and mourn the demise of Sock Monster.  Sock Monster was a part of me as a grandparent . . . as a grandchild.  For my grandchildren and I, Sock Monster may have been laid to rest, but I don’t think he is gone.  No, I imagine that down the road, when my grandchildren start having their own children, that there will be a revival and rebirth of Sock Monster.  There are always finicky, rambunctious, crying children needing respite and relief . . . needing entertained.  In those moments they will remember . . . Sock Monster!  And the story will continue as it has for generations.