I would have stopped there if I had been a few decades younger and still reckless and easily thrilled by mega-fireworks. It was one of three stores on the Nez Perce Reservation in tiny Lapwai, Idaho, competing to sell the really good stuff for the Fourth of July. I passed it ten times during a research trip in late June.
A fire bug as a kid, I thought of the business tonight as we lit the most demure fireworks for little Atticus, who looked on in wonder, hands clasped over sensitive ears. Maybe one day I’ll take him to Lapwai and we’ll stock up at the place that wins my award for best business name ever: Pyro Paradise.
In Portland, Fourth of July fireworks typically begin a day or two early and linger for a few days. I’m talking about unofficial fireworks, the kind I nearly maimed myself with as a kid.
This evening on my front steps, I heard a firecracker explode up the street. At the sound, an Alfred Hitchcock flock of crows rose from the trees. The sky darkened as they passed overhead. Later my wife said I’d been shat upon.
Maybe the fury of the Fourth loosens the bowels of birds. It’s hell on dogs. Our friends down the street have two miniature greyhounds, loving but nervous dogs. During a fusillade last night, little Zoe crashed through a window and disappeared into the night. The Humane Society phoned today with good news.
Despite these incidents, one trivial and the other nearly tragic, neighborhood fireworks were dramatically diminished this year. At times it was eerily quiet. As if people decided there’s not much to celebrate.
