Ah. The Fourth of July. The celebration of our nation's birth in the face of overwhelming odds. Here in Massachusetts, especially so close to Boston, the celebrations begin about June 20th. Firecrackers go off randomly and frequently every night, and houses are tarted up with enough American flags to dress an army. In our little neck of the state, the neighborhood celebrates July 3 with a huge block party and bonfire. The bonfire was about three stories high when I passed it the other day while walking the dogs. It always leaves some lovely charred debris all over the beach.
I think my favorite thing about July 3 is the roaming bands of teenagers. Larry and I are fortunate enough to live near two gathering spots: the front of the Congregational Church, and the parking lot of the elementary school. The teens descended last night around 10:30, just as Larry was trying to go to sleep. (He works on July 4th this year. And Thanksgiving. And Christmas. F*$%ing corporate America.) Anyway, about 20 of them parked themselves in front of our house, screaming and laughing.
After about half an hour, I had had enough so I went out front and told them to move on down the street. The darlings refused to move, so I threatened with the police. They moved about 20 feet down from the house. I get that there isn't anywhere for them to go. I'm not that far removed from those years that I don't remember being chased from one hangout to another by the Delray police. But when they can't keep it down to a dull roar and then start screaming like banshees (is there anything like the sound of a shrieking teenaged girl?) and beating the shit out of each other it's time to call the police. Which I finally did. The crowd dispersed, and I just sat and rocked on the front porch for a while. It was nice out.
The evening was capped only by the two having sex outside my office window, in the shadows provided by the church.