It seems like I’ve mentioned here before about my husband being something of a neighborhood terror when it comes to July 4, even if in looking over what I’ve written here in the past couple of months I can’t find any trace. After so many years of marriage, all of this is oft-repeated and second-nature to me. So forgive me if any of it comes off sounding redundant.
In short, my husband John is a fireworks nut. If I let guns in the house, he would be a gun nut. Basically, anything John can blow up or incinerate or shoot holes through he takes to with childlike enthusiasm, though if any children followed John’s lead, I think I’d lose my faith in humanity.
John buys more fireworks and explosives than a militia. His annual show could cause an airliner to divert course rather than risk being shot down, every dog in our neighborhood now needs tranquilizers to not be driven berserk by the noise John creates, and the neighbors served him with a “Cease and Desist” order one year, though they later relented.
John’s even talking about celebrating Chinese New Year to have more excuses to set off more explosions. I’d laugh, but I found Mandarin language tapes in our kitchen.
What’s funny is that my husband is otherwise so gentle and sweet, nothing like the angry, combustible sort of blow hard I’d expect a fireworks nut to be. John works hard to give our family a decent life, is emotionally present when he’s home and listens attentively to everything I say. He’s treated me like his queen for 25 years, and he’s the only man I’ll ever love.
So I indulge John this adolescent fantasy, even if he’s pushing 50. I look the other way every time he brings home another box filled with Roman candles and other explosives, a massive grin on his face, like he did this past weekend. Because the truth is, a part of me smiles too.