Oops! Jumped the Fireworks!

The fireworks came and it wasn’t even the Fourth of July.  The town exploded shortly after it was announced that there would be no fireworks allowed in the community for the celebration of our nation’s 250^th birthday.  That original news was received with great joy by many.  Those veterans with PTSD rejoiced.  There would be no explosions to trigger traumatic memories of combat experience.  Those with small children and babies who are sensitive to loud noises ruining their bedtimes . . . same with the old folks wanting to go to bed early—they rejoiced.  Those with pets, especially dogs, who hear loud noises six to eight times louder than humans and are scared into panic.  They rejoiced, knowing there would be peace and calm.  For a moment there was great joy . . . but only for a moment.

Then the fireworks began.

 

Social media blew up attacking and ridiculing the town, the council, and mayor.  Like a scorned lover they beat a path to town hall like the villagers storming Frankenstein’s castle.  The only things missing were the pitchforks and flaming torches.  Wisely they left those in their pickups.  For seven days the campaign was waged.  The battle was referred to as “lively discussion”.  Of course, that description depended on which side of the discussion you were on.  Needless to say, it escalated to the point that it blurred the lines of civility and mayhem.

 

Mayhem won.

 

Seven days after the town announced its fireworks ban the mayor rescinded the ban.  Fireworks were back in business.  The mob patted itself on the back.  The noisiest wheel had gotten greased.  A different joy filled the air pushing the brief exhilaration of the previous declaration to the side of the road.  The veterans mourned.  The parents and elderly sighed.  Pet owners were sad.  Fourth of July without fireworks was lost. The noise and chaos had won.

 

I count myself among those who grieve over losing a noiseless celebration of the Fourth of July.  I’ll be drugging one of my pups to relieve her fear and anxiety.  We will sit in the basement with the television loudly blaring in hope that between the mindbenders and competing noise she will feel safe and calm.  It is sad that we will become prisoners in our own home to satisfy the need of a few wanting to blow up something.  But, hey!  That is the American way.

 

In the original declaration of banning fireworks, the town council cited fire concerns.  That is a legitimate concern.  Montana has been in a drought for over a year.  We have entered the “fire season”.  With the lack of snow in the winter and sparse rain in the spring things are drier than usual.  The risk of fire is real.  Check out the fires in Colorado, Utah, and California.  As I write this there is a 6,000-acre fire just down the road south of us in between the communities of Bridger and Fromberg.  The council’s decision was reasonable.  The risk was too great.  The council thought better of it.  A resolution was made.  Debate ensued among the council.  The question was raised and the vote was taken.  The resolution passed.

 

For a few of the seven days there had been the possibility of rain.  Calling what was actually received would be generous.  In totality there was only .12 inches of moisture.  A little over a tenth of an inch.    It was what some folks would call a “nine-inch rain” . . . nine inches between every drop.  It wasn’t exactly the deluge of Noah’s epic flood, but it represented a flood in the minds of the local pyromaniacs.  God was telling them, “to go forth and blow things up to your hearts’ content.”  Truly, a tenth of moisture was good enough for shooting off fireworks they argued . . . and argued . . . and argued.

 

Worn by the tenacity of the assault, the mayor—not the town council—removed the ban.

 

Though fire risk and lack of moisture were the reasons behind the ban, the real focus was more theoretical and political.  Those in favor of fireworks felt their freedom and constitutional rights were being attacked and taken away.  It was their “right” to light fireworks and blow up the town.  I checked my copy of the Constitution—both state and federal, and I could not find where it talked about the freedom to shoot off fireworks.  It was claimed that this was the first step toward tyranny—a fireworks ban! I wonder where in the hell they have been since the incumbent president has run amuck over our country, its constitution, and citizen’s freedom for the past 18 months.  I guess that is another day and debate.  None the less, they turned the argument political.

 

Those who were for fireworks were America’s defenders.  True patriots.  Those against the fireworks were libtards, communists, socialists, and anti-America.  Unpatriotic.  They pointed fingers and declared a conspiracy to overthrow the president and government.  Besides it is the Semiquincentennial of the United States of America—the 250^th birthday!  That is enough cause to blow up the town.  It was a patriotic duty and damn all those communistic and socialistic libtards!  If they don’t like it, they can leave America . . . or at least town for the Fourth.  The mayor passively aggressively noted that “right” in declaring the ban removed in a letter to the community.

 

Rain and politics are debatable.  Yet the crux of the problem was actually simple . . . the rules.  In their benevolent desire to appease what many would rather have—a Fourth of July void of fireworks, they got the cart before the horse.  The decision did not follow protocol.  Those in the community who live and die by the letter of the law when it is in their favor discovered that.    As caring as the original resolution was, it was for naught.  There were those who gleefully pointed it out to the mayor and town council.

 

And they were right.  Procedure was not followed.  Notice of the resolution was not made public (it was a spur of the moment thing).  Public hearings on the resolution were not had.  It was not on the agenda for the public to witness.  Technically the resolution and vote were not legal.  Technically it was null and voided out the gate.  The restoration of fireworks was decreed and quickly made.  The town, the council, and mayor did not need the mess this whole fiasco created.

 

Though I was madder than a wet hen upon learning the fireworks were restored, I did calm down by the end of the day.  I’m disappointed in the mayor’s decision, but I also understand the ramifications if the decision had not been made.  I’m sadden because I believe that more townspeople lean towards a firework ban for the Fourth of July celebration than the willful noise assault of exploding fireworks.  I feel for my dogs who must be drugged for their sanity and safety.  I pray for the veterans with PTSD that they are safe and not thrown back into the horrific trauma of the conflicts they experienced.  I wish the parents of children and babies the best of luck in getting their kids to sleep.  And those elderly . . . I guess they are on their own.  We lost.

 

To the victors go the spoils.  Freedom and individual rights have been served.  The communistic socialist assault on our nation and its liberty has been repelled.  The libtards have been put in their place. Freedom rings.  Fireworks have been redeemed to their sacred place.  Life is back to normal.  God will watch over us all . . . God will keep us safe.  After all, we are God’s chosen people . . . chosen nation.  We are the United States of America.  God’s favorites.  The president said so.  Damn the rest.  They are on their own.  Let the fireworks begin . . .

 

. . . I hope it rains.

 

The Power of Silliness

I am becoming an old person.  The years are stacking up.  I suppose retirement does that by creating an awareness that the times are changing and there is nothing that can change that.  Life is serious and that seriousness is being seen and experienced through younger and fresher eyes.  Generations experience life differently.  This transition into the realm of elderliness becomes more obvious with each passing day.  I and my generation are now becoming categories in Trivial Pursuit and the “do you remember” questions asked at the end of the nightly news.  I am becoming a relic . . . and old relic at that. 

This is not anything that has been pointed out by the masses.  We, there are those smart aleck people who relish the old age putdowns when they have the chance . . . but for the most part it is more subtle.  When going out to play with the grandchildren, I hear my children say, “Be careful with Papa.”  A reminder that Papa is getting older, slower, and more breakable.  Wouldn’t want to break Papa!  “You, okay?” is another subtle reminder I get whenever I moan or groan with any movement I make.  Most of the time I am just moaning and groaning because it is expected at my age and I do not want to disappoint.  Gotta play the part whether there is a reason for the moaning or groaning.  The children are gracious in their subtle hints at my movement into being old.

 

It is not like I am not aware of this transition into old age.  I may be old, but I get the hints.  The biggest culprit is my body.  It seems that arthritis and its buddy rheumatoid like to play tag with the joints and muscles in my hands daily.  Sometimes they even expand their playfulness and wander up my arms to camp out in my elbows.  Stamina isn’t what it used to be.  The heart and lungs rebel more than they used to.  They tend to send reminders to slow down and don’t overdo it.  The heart is especially adamant in letting me know that if it goes, so goes everything else.  Eyesight is fading . . . we now have a drive in size television.  Hearing is following closely . . . thank goodness the big screen television comes with closed captioning.  I’m not complaining about the hearing going as I am discovering that a lot of what people want to tell me really doesn’t matter to me.  Memory is staking a claim in the race to physical disintegration of my body.  I catch myself often forgetting little things here and there.  Which has actually been wonderful as it has provided multiple epiphanies once I remember what I forget.  A whole lot of “oh, yeah” moments.

 

So, yes, I am joining the ranks of the elderly.  I am assuming my place in the geriatric choir where we sing lots of songs from the 1970s—Beatles, Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, CSNY—instead of the hymns of our parents.  I am old, but I ain’t dead yet.  Nope, I’m experiencing a “Merlin”.

 

In T.H. White’s Arthurian legend, The Once and Future King, the child Arthur is taught and mentored by the old wizard Merlin. As the story begins Merlin has reached the peak of his age and has begun his descent down the mountain of age.  As the child Arthur grows older each year, Merlin grows younger—he lives backwards, starting as an old man and aging toward infancy.  I have entered the “Merlin” stage of my life . . . I regress.

 

What a wonderful gift it has been to backtrack and rediscover the beauty and joy of life that have been repressed by the duties, responsibilities, and expectations of adulthood.  There is much to re-learn, re-experience, and re-grasp.  Too often I forget this gift . . . this regression.  Yet there are those who remind me.  Where my children focus on my journey of aging, my grandchildren see the other side.  They see the gift of my youth shining through the wrinkles and cracks of old age.  They recognize the “child” in me and encourage that “child” to come out and play.  After spending a week with two of my visiting grandchildren it is more obvious that the “child” in me is emerging.

 

And the “child” rejoices.

 

The greatest gift revealed from my childhood has been silliness.  Garrison Keillor recently wrote in his weekly column: “Silliness is essential to human life, it’s proof that life can be joyful, we need not die from indifference.”  As my grandchildren have told me many times, “Papa, you are silly.”

 

They are right.  I am silly.  A week with my grandchildren amplified the silliness often hidden from the judgmental eyes of adults in my life.  From discovering rocks and their hidden identities waiting to be released with a little paint.  Drawing pictures with chalk releasing a world others cannot see on the sidewalk before them.  Making joyful and beautiful music with a kazoo that others claim is noise.  Drawing pirates, Easter bunnies, flowers, caterpillars, and butterflies on windows with markers.  Basking in popsicles.  Waging battles against unseen foes with all the sound effects of the old Batman series . . . boom, bam, wham, and POW!  Wearing two different colored socks.  Blowing bubbles in the milk glass.  Constantly giggling, laughing . . . and doing it some more . . . at really bad jokes, puns, and riddles.  Teasing.  A whole lot of silliness.

 

And it was joyful!  A celebration of life.  A wonderful dance of love . . . and if you have ever seen me dance, you’d know silliness.  For a while nothing else mattered.  There wasn’t the drama of a crazy orange person in the White House.  No worries about inflation and rising gas prices.  No thoughts about war and injustice.  No pictures of meanness or cruelty.  No fussing and fighting.  No darkness blocking the sun. Only blissfulness and joy of embracing the silliness of childhood and life . . . and it was good.  For this reminder I am thankful.

 

I may be seen as old and elderly by the world around me, but I regress.  As I regress, the “child” I once was with all the dreams and hope that youth can hold comes tumbling towards me.  It is a gift . . . a wondrous, beautiful gift of life that reminds me that I am loved and cared for.  I may be getting old, but I am not dead or forgotten.  Nope, I’m still here and I am . . . silly.  Silly and enjoying life.  And it is good . . . really good.

 

Life is pretty dark and tough right now.  We are all experiencing our age in these difficult times.  It is frustrating and scary.  Dark.  Because of this I encourage you to pause, find a child, and spend some time getting silly.  It is good for the soul.  It will help you to see and remind you that life is good . . . life is beautiful . . . that it is joyful.  Silliness reveals what the eyes cannot see but what we need to see.  As Johnny Nash once sang:

 

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone

I can see all obstacles in my way

Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind

 

It’s gonna be a bright, bright

Sun-shiny day

It’s gonna be a bright, bright

Sun-shiny day

 

I think I can make it now, the pain is gone

All the bad feelings have disappeared

Here is the rainbow I’ve been prayin’ for

 

It’s gonna be a bright, bright

Sun-shiny day

 

Look all around, there’s nothin’ but blue skies

Look straight ahead, nothin’ but blue skies

 

The power of silliness . . . the power of growing old.