The past couple of days have been a little busy in an academic summer’s kind of way — fireworks, family time, and the usual household chores along with my usual reading and thinking. Beats hell out of selling tires and batteries at Sears (which I did for the summer after I got my M.A. — the other guys at the auto center would call me “Shakespeare.” I would sometimes wonder if they had read it in The Glass Menagerie, or if they had come up with it independently.), but it still feels busy in its way, perhaps a way that Dr. Johnson’s Mr. Sober would understand. And here is another of these pleasant diversions, I think.
So, fireworks. Mrs. M and I watched the Independence Day fireworks display Monday night. The Spawn did as well, but at a different location, where she was also catching up with a high school friend/color guard teammate on their adventures as freshpeeps. Ordinarily, the displays take place at the high school football stadium, but the stadium is undergoing renovations, so we had to watch from a parking lot at the strip mall up the street. This meant that we didn’t have the usual musical accompaniment (over the stadium P.A.), but on the other hand, the seats in Mrs. M’s car were considerably more comfortable than bleachers, and we opened the sunroof for extra summer effects.
It also happened that the cars on either side of us had little kids in attendance — the grandchildren of a coworker on my left, and some kids of indeterminate provenance (along with the presumptive parents) on my right. It was fun listening to them getting excited, and I enjoyed hearing the (grand)parents enjoying the children (and discouraging them from falling out of the backs of the pickup trucks in which they sat). One kid converted an antibacterial wipe into a ghost puppet, and was explaining the ghost’s habits and activities to the adults, to the other kids, to himself (when no one else seemed to be listening), and to me, although he didn’t know that. I remembered when the Spawn was very much like that little guy — and maybe she still is, and maybe I am too, although we tell our stories in written form these days.
In any case, the display (about 15-20 minutes, sponsored by the Sheriff’s Department) earned its share of Oohs and Aahs, and flags were waved, and I could occasionally see light flicker across the face of the kid on my right (he of the ghost puppet) as some of the bigger fireworks went off. We made it home with little difficulty, and the Spawn arrived shortly thereafter. A good night to be in an American small town.
Alternating feet report: The Y was closed for the 4th, so I went on Sunday, yesterday, and today. What I have come to think of as my “normal” walk is two miles, which I do in just less than 33 minutes, but I decided to extend things a bit yesterday, so I did four miles, and as mathematics indicates, I got it done in about 1:05.
As a follow up, today I did a 5K, bringing me to 9.1 miles on the week. So if I do my usual 2-milers tomorrow and Friday, that will give me what I’ve come to think of as an Ikea half-marathon, and me without my Allen wrench.
So the furnace switch down here has been pegged of late — the local TV guys are predicting a high of 104 Friday, and with the humidity, that feels like the Celsius reading. That in turn leads me to the music portion of this potpourri post. You can find it on the classic Nuggets box set, and it was the band’s sole hit, although the arranger went on to write the “Hefty/Wimpy” garbage bags jingle, and member Mike Appel managed Bruce Springsteen. From 1967-68, here’s New Jersey’s The Balloon Farm (named for an NYC nightclub), and “A Question of Temperature.”
Stay cool — I’ll see you soon!