When I was a kid, I used to love the 4th of July. My parents raised me to be a patriotic American, one who loves his country even despite her flaws. Every 4th, we'd pack the whole family up and have a picnic at Stone Mountain Park. We'd eat sandwiches, toss a frisbee, play gin, and wait for the sun to go down. Then came the laser show, one which featured outlining, then animating, the Confederate generals carved into the rock (this is the South, and, unfortunately, Confederate pride will never go out of style). Then came the fireworks. A gigantic, ear-splitting fireworks display, made louder by the soundwave echo slamming against the mountain, bound for our tender eardrums. It was beautiful, true rocket's red glare and mid-air bomb bursts.
These days I dread the 4th. It's not for the jingoism I was too young to understand as a child, which irks me, but I try not to let other's infantile politics change the spirit of the holiday for me. The real reason is I'm not much for fireworks anymore. I haven't been since I came back from Iraq.
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