Sarah, these aren't the fireworks. I had wanted to get a picture of a cherubic little girl in a patriotic t-shirt holding a sparkler, but this is the closest thing I got. The batteries in my camera died before they started. We biked down to the lake with half a million of our neighbors, finding a spot right next to a group who had their generator powering a giant stereo system blaring The Who. I'd been in a bad mood all day, what with relatives staying with us, and I'm not a fan of crowds. So I plugged in my iPod and zoned out to Bach's Cello Suites (Side note to Elaine: it's been six months since New Years'! Indeed, Best Year Ever.) while waiting for the fireworks to start. Always works.
My dad, to pass the time, decided to do some push-ups. Actually, my 17-year-old cousin decided to do some push-ups, and my dad followed suit. I used the last of my camera batteries to take this picture of him and a very eager soldier just out of basic training who jumped in to join him. During the fireworks, this same, very drunk, private started yelling things like "Incoming indirect fire! Cover! Cover! Incoming!" which, as one would expect, got him in a fight with the guy behind him. Lovely. He'll make a us a great nation-builder. I tried not to pay too much attention, since we were sitting so close to the fireworks we were getting rained on by ash, hence my mom's commenting opening this entry. Here's where I would have put a picture of the two-inch square of singed cardboard that landed on my head. I ended up using a beach towel as a burqa to protect myself. In the words of the other drunk soldier on the other side of us, "You know what this smells like? It smells like victory!!"
The fireworks themselves were pretty cool. They would have looked pretty awesome from the roof of the house, too.
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