campfire excuses

Every holiday on the American Calendar is like an orgasm, a ton of exciting build up, a very brief moment of bliss and then it's over. The aftermath of which feels like it never happened at all. Common sounds to the holiday build up are the "what are you going as this year? what did you get so and so for christmas? where are you spending new years? what are you plans for St. pats? what do you do for easter? Etc.

The fourth of July, America's unofficial, but yet, official birthday, is a doozy. The craziness surrounding this special event can not even be measured by any known source of scientific method. There is heat. Explosives. Booze. Children. Tradition. Crying soldiers. Parades and picnics. There is so much riding on this holiday, most people forget what's it for.

Asking anyone within a two mile radius of you, on the fourth, there is a good chance that most people in all their glorious self-righteous indignation, will not know the basic elements of their own country. The speeches and the flags all total up to a syrupy sappy day of "remember" and "freedom" and "god bless the red, white and blue" and "let's get drunk and watch our kids handle burning phosphorous". You know, the same stuff we dropped in Vietnam.

I enjoy the celebration. I don't enjoy the method. How many people really feel that they are celebrating their country's birthday when the step foot into a firework outlet tent to buy firecrackers? Does the selection of the right home display make you more or less of a patriot? Can our patriotism be displayed in less obnoxious ways?

So, the day comes. The fourth of July. During the day, nothing. No mention of what it's for. No, this birthday of a nation can only be celebrated correctly at night.

Everything is closed during the day, is that part of the celebration?

As night falls at somewhere near 9:30, fireworks, which cost more than most people's houses, are set up in to the sky and detonated for all to see. We oh and ah, we hold each other and pretend that we deserve this. There is color and loud echoing explosions. Do they stir us to hold hands with our fellow countrymen? Nay. For as we are looking up, we are also looking to our side. Making sure we are not being robbed and making sure that no one is setting off fireworks near our heads as a joke. We are also keeping a strong eye on the way back to the car, which is two miles away and protected by three dozen drunk drivers carrying explosives. Yes. We love the sparkle in the night sky. We love the memories of firework displays of yore, but we are also aware of how much we want to see firework displays of the morrow.

Camping is fun. Isn't it? Not the sleeping in tents, not the sleeping bag, or the dishes covered with dirt. Not the dirty clothes or the dirty skin underneath, no, camping isn't any of these things. Camping is about, a fire. A mysterious lure. A mesmorizing flame of memory. You can stare at a campfire for hours and not take an eye away. You don't need to say anything, and if you are lucky, you can share your fire with someone else or a bunch of someone elses that know how to enjoy it too. That fire. A symbol that it's still there. It's still working. It's still free. It's still dangerous. It's still worth keeping.

We watch that fire with the knowledge that soon it will be gone and there is nothing more depressing than seeing the ashes of where a great pleasant fire used to be. I guess that's why we are so excited about starting up a new one.

Celebrate anyway you know how. A few moments of fireworks across the sky. Or a long slow burn.