Next year I'll at least wear shoes

Curfew isn’t for another hour and a half. It’s hard to imagine this will last that long. And yet we still have fireworks left over from last year since we ran out of time before we ran out of ammo. So we may be far from any finales tonight. Welcome to the Fourth of July in a county where both safe and sane are up for debate.

This is the first year in the seven that we have lived here that I have stayed at Woodhaven for the 4th of July. The first year, we were about two weeks from moving out of a blessedly temporary apartment near Portland. That year, Rob stayed at our new house to make sure it didn’t catch on fire and I stayed at the apartment to keep the already edgy cat company. Subsequent 4ths involved going over to friends’ houses or leaving town altogether. This year, due to laziness and a now laughable desire to “keep things low key” we decided to have dinner on our patio and hang out at Woodhaven for our nation’s birthday. It seemed all the more prudent a plan last night when Zak was scrunched up under the bed out of terror from the pre-maturely celebratory pops right outside his normally tranquil domain.

So we had a nice loungy dinner at my favorite summer restaurant. Patio seating for two, grilled goodies, salad fresh from our garden, music piped in from the living room, wine from the Columbia Gorge. We had had a long sweaty day at a dusty rodeo and were thusly smothered in sticky SPF 30 so we each took showers and changed into pjs at 9:00pm, figuring we’d hang out with the cats and listen to music from the ‘70s and ‘80s while surfing the net and wondering how many years we are away from going to bed on New Year’s Eve before the ball even drops live in New York.

Instead, I just spent at least 25 minutes outside in my pajamas and bare feet spinning around in circles on the east side of our house. Much to my astonishment, Woodhaven is surrounded by at least three dozen fireworks displays of varying proximities and decibels. I truly have never seen or experienced anything like it.

Rob is just now revealing to me the truth of that first 4th of July we spent apart. “It was actually worse than this” and “I never told you this but a tree up there on the hill caught fire that year” were among the nuggets from the truth serum we’ll call “The Passage of Time.” He was very wise not to tell me then. I’m not entirely sure I needed to know now.

My tender feet daintily placed on pebbled concrete, I spun this way and that next to our basketball hoop, mouth agape, trying to figure out where best to look. To the south is a valley and, further, Portland. I could see professional fireworks in the distance bubbling up above the tree line. I could see driveway displays in the valley below us – probably 25 or more separate shows of various heights and colors and widths. A rather impressive show was to the east, likely shot from a lot that touches ours. Their firings were sporadic yet jaw-droppingly impressive. Several times my silhouette was sharp and prominent against our garage due to the bright white and green light of their show. The booms made me jump and feel sorry for our poor kitties. And to the north, two different sets of very proximate neighbors…and the occasional third and fourth further up the hill…provided insanely close, loud, bright, practically professional fireworks complete with accompanying commentary and applause. I had an inkling something happened up there, since in years past I would find spent shells and casings peppering the road while on my somewhat daily walks. However, I had no idea the “something” was quite so impressive.

I take some comfort in knowing the families behind these displays. All very responsible people with young children they adore and would not dream of putting in harm’s way. But they are also people with lots of cool toys and stressful jobs and a freedom-of-expression spirit that seems to be encouraged by living in the boonies. And so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by the high, multi-colored thuds and sprinkles that are filling our front yard at the moment. The blooms that I would typically expect to have to travel, park, and wait hours in an uncomfortable lawn chair to see. Little did I know I could just stay home in my pajamas and be treated to a (going on one hour long) panoramic show for free.