Sunday- The Challenge of the Independent

New Laptop, new kyboard. Please be patient.
Seems the 'e' goes missing a little. Odd.

We'll just have to see if they can add this laptop to the school network. Seems anything past Windows 95 is suspicious, anything with all these 'bits'-- 64? too many!

But for now, the larger screen is nice, the better sound likewise. The new keyboard, though. A struggle. The O and the E are not playing along. Actually, all the vowels seem shy. Hmm.

But back to the point: My Liberal Dilemma. So, maybe it's Dilemma Sundays?

Today is July Fourth. OK, I really don't like most holidays (don't get me started on Christmas), but I used to like the 4th. In recent years, Rob and I took my mom to the fireworks in town, saw the whole town out there, enjoying the gentle weather (yay California!) and then watching the super patriotic display of the fireworks. Remember, as a Veteran, I pretty much love patriotic displays, as long as it's an 'all of us inclusive' kind of thing. That's the liberal in me coming through, though.

There is a carve out to my patriotism: the song "Proud to be an American." This could be the worst song ever. "Ain't no doubt"? Really. But I digress.

Back to the point. Last year, after the big show, we returned and began calming all three dogs. A challenge. Whoopi, 14 and pretty deaf, sails through. She generally doesn't wake up; sleeps through it all. The well earned rest of the aged.

Hoover, the young dog (four, acts like he's four months), goes predictably crazy. Shakes. Moans. Wails. Hides. Tears around the house like his tail is on fire. Then repeats all of this in three minute cycles. Sigh. CJ (about a year older than Hoovie) follows his lead.

This makes today about the worst day to be a dog. Especially in this neighborhood.

Now, I love this neighborhood- the cheap side of town, high density, low prices, great ocean breezes and even better burritos. Except tonight. It becomes fireworks central. Illegal; fire-danger providing; dog-terrifying; favorite of drunken dads, uncles and grandfathers fireworks. I guess if you drive a few miles inland there is a pipeline that brings artillery from Mexico that has been repurposed into fireworks. I'm not kidding, but I wish I was. Which takes us back to last year.

July 4, 2009. We get home, and begin calming the dogs. It's 9, then 10, then 11 PM. And the fireworks just keep going. Down the street, one street over, a beer-fueled father was setting off missiles. I don't know what else they could be called. In the center of the street is a 6 inch diameter pipe welded to a base plate. Then you set the RPG into the pipe, light the fuse, stagger away to get behind a car that is probably filled with gas, and wait. The rocket ignites, putting to shame every Cape Canaveral launch before Apollo 9. The weapon reaches 30 feet and explodes. The lights are impressive, the sound is deafening, and even more fun is the shrapnel that then falls onto the street, the cars, the houses and the dry dry hillside. It sounds like hard, hot metal rain.

How do I know? Because last year I waited until 11 PM, then walked down the street to 186 Leighton Street to ask Mr. Drunken Patriotism to pack it in. No, really, I'm that stupid.

(I'm providing the address this year because if the same thing happens this year, and I go missing, then it is up to YOU, loyal readers, to avenge me. Don't scoff!)

Last year our next door neighbor was in the last few days of her life. She was home, the hospice folks were there, and her family was sitting vigil. They were waiting for her to pass gently. And in the middle of this, we have a thousand dollars of pure pyrotechnic glory up the street. Did the neighbors complain? Nope. But I did.

In I went, cell phone in hand. I did ask nicely, I really did. The inebriated igniter laughed in my face. "This is entertainment" he bellowed. I was ignorant; it is his God given right to explode things on this special day. Well, this day as well as New Years Eve, and, oddly, Easter. An older gentleman was there too, grinning and sipping his Budweiser, and then he became very upset when I asked them to stop. I used words like "illegal", "dangerous", and, I'm pretty sure, "rude."

The older gentleman asked me, "how long have you live in this neighborhood?" I had to admit, only twelve years. "Ha! I lived here for 50!"

Oh. But, what does that mean, exactly? You have the right to blow the place up? Catch it on fire? For every decade, the right to break the law a little more? At 75 years, do you have the right to set up a meth lab? At 100, the ability to kill someone with no consequences? Sure, this is a stretch, but maybe not.

I explained that I had called the police (an empty threat, of course. 911 is pretty busy on this night, and living on this cheap side of town means a two hour delay for most calls, with many emergency calls never being answered).

In the end, no one punched me (although there were plenty of threatening gestures and lots of posturing). The fireworks continued, in complete defiance to my ill-considered request. The frequency may have increased (which works in my favor, I think, because they ran out a little sooner than they might otherwise have).

I didn't sleep a wink that night. Between soothing the dogs, waiting for the fireworks to be aimed at my house, and the inevitable (in my mind) vandalism to my house, I was jumpier than Hoover. THAT was July 4, 2009.

Bev, our neighbor, passed away on Monday, July 6th. Tuesday, I left for a road trip to Oregon, where I bought the property we now own in Astoria.

This year? I called the vet on Friday and picked up Doggy Downers for Hoover and CJ, and Rob has sworn to share his Xanax with me. I'll feel successful if I don't wind up down the street confronting the unaccountable, asking for courtesy from the disorderly.

Wish me luck. Next post: Monday July 5th. If this gets to Tuesday and no word from me, call the local Ventura PD!

And happy 4th of July. Ain't no doubt I love this land.