Explosions in the sky

If you look at summer in America as one long, hot, sticky timeline, kicking off with Memorial Day and ending with Labor Day, then you could probably consider the Fourth of July the climax: It's the centerpiece of the three holidays, where we celebrate some our most treasured pastimes-- lawn games, baseball, barbeque, and blowing things up. And not necessarily in that order.

Past Fourth celebrations with my family in St. Louis were once carefully organized events--appetizers coincide with running through a sprinkler while the baseball game blares through a radio somewhere; that's all followed by a game of washers, then dinner, and then my uncle's wholesale-bonanza-of-fireworks show that seemed to grow unhealthily each year. That's a fine itinerary for worried mothers, who can stave off imagery of stumpy fingers until late into the evening when a few beers might have taken the edge off. But no longer.

From the moment we pull into my grandparents' driveway, my brother, cousins and I giddily dig through the piles of cardboard and gunpowder, like some sort of psychotic children on Pyro Christmas. This is the one time a year where it's socially acceptable to set things on fire. "What does this one do? A monkey on a tricycle that has turbo rockets, huh. Emits showers of sparks? Great, who has the lighter?" Blame it on the "have-now" culture of the Internet, maybe, but we no longer find a discernible reason to schedule when our fleet of tricycle monkeys should meet their ultimate end. If there's a wick and a lighter, forget it--it's in smithereens.

Call it morally reprehensible, dangerous, stupid--it's all of those, actually--but fireworks time also brings out a unique unifying spirit. The childlike grins on my father and uncles' faces as they chase each other with Roman candles--that's freedom, and the forefathers themselves wouldn't have it any other way. Regardless of their fears, the mothers eventually set out lawn chairs to watch us set our testosterone into flight, and as long as we come out with our appendages intact, the balancing act between entertainment and utter terror usually tilts toward entertainment. Reckless risk of injury in favor of explosion is a synonym for patriotism. And this weekend, call me Patrick Henry.

When the sparks have flown and the last snakes and smoke bombs have met their maker... now what? There's a whole stretch of arid dead air space until Labor Day. So why not explore the massive world outside America? Where I've Been has teamed with Lufthansa to land a spectacular $100 off promotion for any flights booked until the end of the year. But you have to book by July 5th! So in between the potato salad and the burger, plan your next adventure with Lufthansa and Where I've Been!