Part of an Essay

March 19, 2010
Friday, 9:35 P.M.
Home

I have been fortunate, in my adult life, to have lived in relatively safe, peaceful neighborhoods. Once a year, for thirty years, my husband and I would throw an open house 4th of July party. People we hadn’t seen all year long would know to show up at our house on that day; no invitations and it was always a wildly successful blowout. All day long and into the night, the fireworks were being lit and exploded. Bottle rockets whistled through the sky and decorative displays would light up the night. Not once in all those years did a neighbor call the police. They would come from their houses as the sky darkened carrying their folding chairs and they would park themselves along the street to admire the displays. It was the one time in the year when the neighbors in this area came together. They would o-o-o and a-a-ah and you would hear occasional applause. When the fireworks works were over, they would fold up their chairs and go home, with nary a word. They were always content in the knowledge that the next morning we would be outside, going up and down the street, cleaning any debris that may have found its way into their yards, leaving the street just as pristine as it had been on July 3rd. They would not step out to say good morning or comment on the day before. The street remained closed and empty. It was strange.