They had the choice: Go somewhere and watch BIG fireworks, or stay home, and light our own? The latter got the overwhelming vote, so off they went to buy some fireworks with Daddy. And from that time until dark, we had two boys bouncing off the walls. I mean, how can you contain yourself if you are nine or six, and you know that time is ticking down, and at dusk, you will be able to actually light fuses that lead to gunpowder, that lead to magnificent, booming explosions? And you get to do all this, you and your brother, under Daddy's watchful eye from the patio.
You'd get an itchy trigger finger and be bouncing off the walls, too.
(Don't worry, Daddy's not smoking a fine Cuban cigar, here. It's a fine Mag-lite. Really, it is. Oh, and see how nice and shiny he is from slathering on the big dope, uh, the bug dope? Looks so nice and shiny with the flash on. Gasp! Flash? What? I know, I know, I broke Photography Rule #1. Desperation made me do it. That, and a lack of the full working knowledge of my new toy. Which f-stop? Which aperture? Which ISO? Not sure. My best judgment was a shot in the dark [hey, hey], and I had no tripod. So, let's just use the flash. Bad girl, bad, bad, bad.)
But, now, what about if you are 4? What about if you're four years old, and everyone is all atwitter about exploding things outside?
Well, you don't step a toe out there. No Siree.
At dusk, you'd get a mound of blankets and pillows on the couch, well away from the windows, and then you'd crawl under them. Then, after much persuasion from your mama, and the moving of all your blankets and pillows along with you, you'd finally decide that it would be okay to cuddle with your mama on the other couch, and snatch glances of the explosions happening outside. But, only if they are glances, and only if you are cuddled really close. Then you'd feel safe, and you'd chatter and chatter and sing your mama little songs, and hum.
And she'd soak up every moment, because she knows that next year, you'll be 5, and will be right out there with the rest of them, blowing things up.
In fact, it is hard for her to peal herself away and go take some pictures outside. You make sure that she's coming back soon, though, then you say that you'll be okay. Because you are buried under blankets and pillows.
So off your mama goes, taking pictures upon pictures, hoping that she gets at least one good one, and wishing that she had a tripod.
