By the Rockets Red Glare

We had a typical 4th, well, typical for our family.  The boy and I went down to the local fireworks stand and bought up about a hundred dollars worth of legal fireworks, to go with our stash of illegal fireworks purchased last year at an undisclosed location.  He had a couple of his close friends over and we had barbecued ribs and corn on the cob and macaroni salad, and with the possible exception of adding apple pie, I doubt if you could get much more American than that. Of course I had the big flag flying off the porch in the front, and several little ones at the end of the driveway.  When it got dark enough we set off a few of the legals just to alert the neighbors we were in business.  We live in the hills so we could see little blooms of fireworks all over town starting up, and being on that hill, and with the breeze blowing from the northwest, the sound of the distant explosions were amplified, and before long it began to sound like a real battle was going on in the city.  It finally got really dark and we set off one after another in earnest, adding to the cacophony.  The neighborhood was rocking and rolling with booms, lights, and screeching "whistling petes" and I was about to light up a giant bundle named "Mad Max" when I happened to notice the shadowy shape of a man walking his dog up the hill.  I thought it odd that anyone would bring a dog out under these conditions, but I stepped back and told the kids to stand down for a minute to let the man and his dog pass.  As he approached I could see he was an older man, and his dog was a large bird-dog type, a beautiful animal.  The dog didn't seemed alarmed at the noise. I greeted the pair by saying "now there's one brave dog."  The old man stopped and grinned.  "He's a hunting dog.  He's used to the noise."  I mentioned to him that it was kind of an odd time to be out walking, and he replied quietly, "I'm a Vietnam Vet, all this reminds me of stuff I don't want to remember, so I walk."  "I'm a Vietnam Vet too," I said, "Bien Hoa, '66, '67."  "Saigon, '68, '69. Tet," he replied in the Vet-talk familiar to all veterans.  We exchanged names and then shook hands, a little too long, then he and his dog were on their way again.  After a couple of steps he said "Welcome home."  I said "you too," as usual.  Later that night after the kids were gone home and the Boy was doing other things, I sat out on the deck in the dark and listened to the distant booms of the mortars and the rattle of the machine guns, and remembered being a scared 22-year-old so far away from home and all the friends who never came home.

JP