The Fourth of July has always been my favorite holiday, since I was a little kid in a small town with a parade and relay races and fireworks over the beach at night. The fireworks exploded so loud I called them thundercrackers. One year the folks out on the barge bungled the order and shot off the grand finale first. It might have been disappointing, but in a way that only fireworks can be, which is to say not at all.
There was a man with his young daughter and son behind us, watching the fireworks. The girl asked, “Dad, what makes that noise?” and he responded, naturally, “Rice Krispies.”
The swimming hole is an interesting spot, where the confluence of people from different walks of life reflects the spirit of summer and its relaxing of convention. It might be psychologically impossible to feel bad at a swimming hole.