The American Spectator

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The ending was a bit ragged because I’d mismeasured some fuses, but my sons didn’t mind. After lighting the finale fuses, the boys had raced back to the spectator area to sit with their friends who raved that they’d never seen anything so awesome in their lives.

The cheers and applause ended, and I was chatting with my buddy who had operated the video camera when I turned in surprise to see my sons running toward me. They bowled me over in a sort of half-hug, half-tackle, and we tumbled together to the ground in a triumphant embrace.

Vindication was complete.

SINCE THEN, our fireworks shows have been scaled down a good bit, and in response to legal concerns, we’ve relocated the annual event to Alabama, where it’s all perfectly legit.

So now I’m spending two days sweating and cussing in the Alabama sun, putting together the lakeside show that will light the night this Fourth of July.

My wife complains about the expense, but I look at this way: Nine cases of fireworks? About $600. Four hundred feet of fuse? About $60.

One day of being the most awesome Dad in the world? Priceless.