A couple years ago I decided to bring the girls to a local 4th of July fireworks display. When I was growing up we could go to the local rodeo grounds, set out a blanket and chairs and watch an amazing presentation. They would even paint a grid in the dirt where you could safely pick a square and set off firecrackers or stand alone with your sparkler. I thought it might be nice for the girls to have this type of experience.
Where I live now, there are fireworks shows, but not all of them have the accompanying music and pomp. We decided to go up to Virginia City to watch the show.
Virginia City, Nevada is a living museum. It was built during the 19th century mining boom and the area is still historically accurate. On the weekends people dress up in period costume and promenade through town, their shoes echoing on the wooden sidewalks. Since Nevada is an open carry state, the revolvers on display (and the derringers in a ladies bag) are not props. (It took me a couple trips up there to figure that out!) As cool as this is, there is a large hillbilly/white trash element living in VC. Not to mention the meth users, allegedly corrupt sheriff and swingers. (The odds are good, but the goods are odd!) So it can be very interesting after dark.
We parked our truck on the side of a hill across from a small RV park. We set up chairs in the truck bed so we could sit there and watch the fireworks when they started. As with most large American celebrations, people had been out drinking most of the day. The several 5th wheels across from us had multiple families with children milling about, bbqing and just enjoying themselves.
As it started to get dark, people were getting out their chairs, ready for the show to start. Just then, a small, two door sedan sped past the families playing at the RV park.
“Slow down, Capri!” shouted one of the dads. I thought the car might have been an older Toyota Camry or a Honda Civic, but it could have been a Mercury Capri. The car came to a screeching halt and the driver jumped out, yelling at the dad.
“You talkin’ about my SISTER?!”
“What?”
“My sister’s named Capri! Are you talkin’ about her?!”
Right then, the girl in the passenger seat starts yelling for the driver to get back in the car. She may have called him Ford, which made me wonder if they were named for where they were conceived. (I’m still wondering if they have a cousin named Freeway Overpass). I wasn’t sure if shots were going to be fired, so I strategically turned my body so I was between the girls and unfolding events. I luck out because the driver gets back in the car, revs the engine and speeds off. But his grand exit is thwarted because he has to stop 20 feet down the road for the stop sign.
I look over at the dad and he looks completely confused. His buddy comes over and asks what happened.
“I don’t know, man. I just told him to slow down!”
The VC fireworks budget only paid for the explosives, so there was no announcer or music. We enjoyed silent fireworks and then headed home. Since then, we’ve driven to places so we could see the show, but as far as I’m concerned, the Boston Pops Fireworks Spectacular works for me, and I can rewind and re-watch some of the more impressive explosions. And I don’t have to worry about getting shot by a drunken hillbilly over his sister’s questionable life choices.
Mom Solo 