He always has loved fireworks. Since before I existed. Case in point: these pictures. They are from way before I was born. Just look at the freaking wallpaper for Pete's sake. It looks like an M.C. Escher drawing.
Tonight he held out his hand to reveal a little bundle of green paper in his palm -- a little bundle that happened to have a fuse attached to it. When I said, "What's that?" he grinned through his beard and said, "That's loud." Then he walked outside.
Moments later he came back inside, empty handed, and said, "Just wait. In a little bit that's going to be
loud."
"What'd you do? Light it and walk away?"
"I stuck a lit cigarette to the end of it, that way it'll go real slow."
Five minutes later a huge BOOM! resonated through the house. My car alarm started going off. He came back into the kitchen to get my keys so he could turn off my car alarm.
Later he calls us outside for another one. This one he sets on the driveway, clear of the phone line that runs to our house from the street, lights with his Zippo with the picture of the trout on it, and runs away before the sparks start shooting up. We stand in the driveway and admire the display -- so do the kids across the street, who can be heard squealing, "Oooohhhhh!! Fireworks!!"
Yep. My dad loves fireworks.
