Back in the day when I lived on a farm, we used to have big gatherings for the Fourth of July and then later in the fall to do a hayride through the country. During one of those summer affairs, my dad accidentally set fire to the ditch bank with some fireworks. Or at least that’s how I remember it more than 40 years later. Funny how our memories are really just echoes of echoes that eventually bear only a passing resemblance to long-lost reality.
What I know for sure is that our cul-de-sac neighbors spend a ton of money on fireworks each year, hosting a display that rivals those in most small towns.