(Some Independence Day Rant)

I don't remember the number, but I heard on the news that a lot of states now outlaw fireworks, which no doubt saves lots of lives and even more fingers. I mention this because, evidently, I don't live in one of them.

There are lots of fireworks going off right now, right outside my window, and this thrills and pleases me no end. Not only is it delightfully colorful and aromatic, I suspect more than a handful of memories are being generated.

I remember earlier fourths, when I was growing up. No more than a day ahead of time we'd all go to the fireworks store, which was hastily erected on a parking or dirt lot, and look at all the things to buy. Then, my dad would buy a big box, one of those assortments, and we'd take it home and look at it.

Back then we could only legally get the "safe and sane" fireworks, which meant no real fireworks or explosives. Still, by today's standards, they were probably neither. Us kids were not permitted to play with them at all, but on the day of the fourth we were allowed a box of snakes and proceeded to pepper the sidewalk and porch with those characteristic markings. One year I remember I got a tomahawk thing that exploded a paper cap and sent a feather in the air, and I was able to play with that during the day, too.

But, really, we all wanted it to be dark enough for the grown ups to set off the fireworks. Dad would haul a sheet of asbestos (yes) out from somewhere and set it up in the back yard away from the trees. The first thing, always, was the paper log cabin that emitted smoke from the chimney before burning down in satisfying flames. Then, sparklers and the rest.

Our grand finale was usually the pinwheels which dad would fasten to the fence. They'd spin, showering my grandma's rock garden with colored sparks, and we'd all cheer. Well, I'd cheer, but I suspect my parents were busy watching things and drinking.

It was only later in life, when I was an adult, that I discovered the joy that could come from a trip to an Indian Reservation. With an unhealthy assortment of various tubes each promising "flaming colored balls," we'd head out to Santa Monica Beach, which resembled nothing so much as a war zone on the evening of the fourth. No, none of it was legal, but no one mined back then, we were all too busy having fun.

Now you can go there and see state sponsored displays, which look better but only as a spectator.