"Meet'cha outta the Farm.
Need to get on long pants."
Then, the important question is asked.
"Ya got bug spray?"
We meet up at the Farm.
The annual culmination to the 4th can be viewed from the Bro-In-Law & Sister Here's property.
And TechnoBoy can light off his own purchases since we're outside the city limits.
Usually, the pyrotechnics don't start until 10.
We pull into the darkened yard at 5 'til.
Mannnnn.
The town's fireworks are already thumping off, one patient shot after another.
Like someone on a diet trying to restrain themselves by eating just one chip at a time.
We're standing under a pine tree, sharing animated words and the smell of DeepWoods Off.
The methodical eruption of booms and the buzzing of mosquitoes provide the party music.
"Hey! Look at that!"
All heads turn away from the latest explosion.
In the neighbor's neglected field of tall grass floats a blanket of ground-hugging fireworks.
Fireflies. Lightning bugs.
Hundreds of 'em.
Blinking, gliding.
Their small, slow strobe lights dot the darkened field, making it sparkle like a celebrity's dress in front of the cameras.
Our swiveling heads try to watch both altitudes simultaneously,
(sky-field-sky-field-sky),
until the last booming ball of fire trickles from the sky.
In the deafening quiet, the field glitters with hundreds of little floating lights as the sky sparkles with thousands of tiny twinkling ones.
The fireworks continue.
But quietly.
Very quietly.