On July 4th, a few years ago, I got up and dressed in blue jeans and a three-quarter-length shirt, attire a bit warm for the day. But perfect for the fireworks display that night, because there was less of me exposed for the bugs to bite. During the afternoon it rained, but my husband, Rick, said, “It’s supposed to clear up. I don’t think we’ll have a problem going to the show tonight.” We’d been to the fireworks before when it rained, even got caught in a storm there one year and waited an hour or so for the event to start. The rain stopped. Rick and our daughter, who always comes home to go to the July 4th fireworks, dressed in jeans. At twilight we grabbed a can of bug spray and our stadium seats and started out the door. A loud crack of thunder roared. We slinked back inside like wet puppies to wait until the sky cleared. It grew darker and the thunder louder. Lightning danced around our front yard. Rick turned the television to a weather station. The radar ...
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