independence day

Our plan went off without a hitch last evening. As I stood at the ready to snap a family photo, M shouted: "Everyone say, 'L's PREGNANT!" Disbelief, shock, joy -I caught all if it on film. They asked if he was serious. I nodded from behind the camera and kept clicking away. T is a subtle and quiet guy, but his big smile gave away his happiness. His wife was another matter, chattering away, giddy, and generous in her offers of free childcare anytime I need it. She told me that she loves babies and cannot wait for mine to show up. I am glad to be a part of a something that will make her new life with her husband's family in the wild west a little more interesting.

They left just before sundown, and on a whim M and I decided to race down to the east waterfront to catch the fireworks on the Willamette. We'd never gone before in all our years here (our tradition is to climb a ladder and settle in on the roof of our garage and watch the neighborhood display with beers and blankets. The fireworks aren't as grand, but the novelty of hanging out on the roof of the garage makes it well worth it). We parked on SE 7th and joined the throngs of Portlanders heading for the bridge and the Eastbank Esplanade. The Hawthorne bridge was closed off to allow pedestrians a perfect vantage point and we reached the eastern flank of the bridge just as the fireworks began.

It seemed that all of Portland was in attendance -a perfect cross-section of our fine city was represented: 30-somethings with alternately frightened or mesmerized children riding hips and strollers, hipsters in too-tight jeans on bicycles, huge hispanic families, obese white trash with Burger King bags and giant sippy cups. A few stoned hippie-kids wearing sunglasses ambled past, giggling and trying to disappear.

The fireworks were deafening and the smoke from the gunpowder drifted out from the city and floated like a mist over the water. We both tired quickly of the scene. Fireworks have never been my thing. I cannot understand why anyone would want to ooh and ahhh over the mimicry of "bombs bursting in air." I thought of the soldiers returning from Iraq, stricken with PTSD, downing a fifth of Jack Daniels and hiding in their basements until the sound of gunfire has subsided. I could imagine the earsplitting crack of sniper-fire as I listened to the neighborhood revelry and I shuddered to think that in war the sound is much the same. Holding our hands over our ears, we backed down the bridge and left just as the finale was building to a roaring crescendo.

We drove back up the long ascent from the river to our home further east. The city streets were shrouded in a dull, smokey haze and the acrid smell of gun powder hung heavily in the air. The streetlights glinted through the smoke and the cracking and snapping of fireworks rang out from every side street. We thanked the heavens that our city was not in truth a war zone. We rejoiced that upon the morrow, the smoke will have dissipated, and that instead of the shell casings of spent ordnance, the streets will be littered with burnt and colorful wrappings of fireworks.