Happy Happy Birthday America Dear
I was so excited to see this flyer come our way. Just read it and you, too, will feel of my excitement leading up to this day. I didn't see any pets there, and was a bit disappointed. However, it did turn out to be quite a lovely picnic. The kids participated in the parade. They spent minutes, the night before, painstakingly decorating their bikes in anticipation for the big event. Hunter even tie-dyed a shirt in honor of Her birthday.
And here we have this peach. I thought I would share with you, as he shared with us, his love for our country.
Uncle Sam and The Missus were present that day, as well. (Not his Mrs. Just The Missus.)
And who could resist taking picture after picture after picture of this darling? Not I, said the Dad.
In a neighboring town, there was a big to-do. Complete with rodeo, ice cream social, Elvis concert (put on by a Not-In-Person-Ator), and fireworks to be reckoned with. We asked the young-uns if they wanted to attend, knowing full well that they couldn't say no to an Elvis concert. But they surprised us. They said no! They wanted to stay home and light off our own $9.99 Wal-Mart sparklies. So we complied. After all, nothing beats a good old down home firework show.
At one point, I thought of the baby, sound asleep in her bed. Blissfully unaware of the war raging outside her bedroom window. I thought she would like to join us and see all the pretty colors as they blew up in our driveway. So I went in, and picked her up, still sleeping, and brought her outside to see the show.
She did not like it. She did not smile. She did not appreciate the loud screams of The Screamer, or the bright lights of The Diamond Cutter. I could not understand why. Until my sweet husband explained it in a way that I could easily comprehend. "It's torture for her to see her beloved driveway on fire." And he was absolutely right. She hasn't wanted to play outside since then. What have I done?
Despite all that, we had a wonderful 4th, and are so happy to be able to live the lives that we live, to worship, to bear arms, to vote and to light things on fire(within reason) as we please. Thanks F. Scott Fitzgerald for saving our country. (Ha ha! Only kidding. I know who really fought for our country. It was Benjamin Franklin Gates. Duh!)
And here we have this peach. I thought I would share with you, as he shared with us, his love for our country.
Uncle Sam and The Missus were present that day, as well. (Not his Mrs. Just The Missus.)
And who could resist taking picture after picture after picture of this darling? Not I, said the Dad.
In a neighboring town, there was a big to-do. Complete with rodeo, ice cream social, Elvis concert (put on by a Not-In-Person-Ator), and fireworks to be reckoned with. We asked the young-uns if they wanted to attend, knowing full well that they couldn't say no to an Elvis concert. But they surprised us. They said no! They wanted to stay home and light off our own $9.99 Wal-Mart sparklies. So we complied. After all, nothing beats a good old down home firework show.
At one point, I thought of the baby, sound asleep in her bed. Blissfully unaware of the war raging outside her bedroom window. I thought she would like to join us and see all the pretty colors as they blew up in our driveway. So I went in, and picked her up, still sleeping, and brought her outside to see the show.She did not like it. She did not smile. She did not appreciate the loud screams of The Screamer, or the bright lights of The Diamond Cutter. I could not understand why. Until my sweet husband explained it in a way that I could easily comprehend. "It's torture for her to see her beloved driveway on fire." And he was absolutely right. She hasn't wanted to play outside since then. What have I done?
Despite all that, we had a wonderful 4th, and are so happy to be able to live the lives that we live, to worship, to bear arms, to vote and to light things on fire(within reason) as we please. Thanks F. Scott Fitzgerald for saving our country. (Ha ha! Only kidding. I know who really fought for our country. It was Benjamin Franklin Gates. Duh!)
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