Happy Fourth of July!!! Really, what is more American than desperately clinging to scarring childhood events? Maybe Doritos. But. When I was wee, each year, we would go see the fireworks at the country club. The people who actually BELONGED to the Country Club got to sit at the club deck  on fancy reclining  lawn chairs and watch – the rest of us, we snuck onto the golf course and watched (also, how very American.) It was always the most exciting thing in the world, to go. One year, we were apparently being bad, though I posit that It was the fault of Dan, Tim or Pete – and certainly not mine – I think we were loaded up in the car about to leave for the fireworks, and I guess there was fighting, and my Dad said: no fireworks. Everybody out of the car. We of course thought he was kidding, but he definitely wasn’t. There were no fireworks that year.  This deep trauma is probably  accountable for any vices or behavioral problems I currently have. Lesson learned: when in doubt, blame your parents.  I WILL see fireworks this year, Dad, and there is not a THING you can do to stop me!

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