I have two thoughts on July 4th.
One of the best memories of my childhood occurred every year on the Fourth of July. The University of Denver set off spectacular fireworks that could be seen for miles. We did not park the car along the old Valley Highway or in the University Hills Shopping Center parking lot to view the show. My family climbed onto the roof of our post-war bungalow and stretched out on the still warm shingles in the cool evening to watch the fireworks shoot over our heads.
My husband returns from a 10-day raft trip in Idaho this July 4th. I’m writing this during the six days in which we have no phone or internet contact. Good grief! My daughter spent a year in Afghanistan, and thanks to satellite phones, we chatted every few days. I’ve spent most of my life without cell phones, Google or Twitter, so radio silence with my husband seems oddly peaceful before the storm.
I look forward to The Fourth. He’ll have a week’s adventures to share, and so will I. He doesn’t know: Old friends from Dallas showed up in town after four years; I dressed and arrived at a neighborhood party that wasn’t; I figured out the sprinkling system and he didn’t have to worry (because I know he has); his absence allowed me long uninterrupted hours for launching my second novel; and absence really does make the heart grow fonder.