REDNECK INDEPENDENCE DAY - The Aftermath

I got up this morning, well 11ish really, and looked out side. There it was, the remains of a typical redneck summer holiday widely known and respected in the south. And likely feared as well by those who don’t celebrate in the normal southern fashion. Or as normal as we in the boonies ever get.

My entire front and side yard were covered in confetti, the aftermath of hundreds of exploding rockets, bombs and firecrackers. While the brilliant bursts of color are a wonder to behold lighting up the night sky, the morning after is a disaster. Hardly a square inch of space spanning a huge chunk of grass was not filled with cardboard pieces, empty rocket tubes or blown up bits of firecrackers of every hue. There was plastic wrappers from the multitude of packages opened by amateur pyrotechnical wanna-be experts that were strewn about like wrapping paper at Christmas. Sparkler skeletons, the things of wonder to kids too young for explosive devices, were stuck haphazardly in the grass, testament to the enjoyment of the little ones and their penchant for refusing to stay in one place for any length of time. Little white wrappers, once Snap & Pops lay spent, burst open, where tiny hands had thrown them in a frenzy of noise, laughter and littering. Two garbage cans were in sight, overflowing with debris, empty beer and soda cans, lending the thought that at least a few were making an effort to conduct themselves with neatness and dignity. Scattered around the base of those same cans was the evidence that once the can was full, none of them had the time or energy to walk into the house for an empty garbage bag, and instead aimed in the general direction of said cans and hoped it fell somewhere near them.

Walking across the grass was like a treasure hunt, one made even more difficult by the lack of a map for directions or clues. No matter which direction I walked, there was some evidence of a celebration. Half filled glasses of (usually) a suspicious smelling drink sitting in the grass, to a full un-opened can of Natural Lite sitting on my doorstep, the remnants of someone’s alcoholic bliss lingered. And this ole gal never touched a drop. The cooler was still half full of Cokes and Dr, Peppers and Sprite…………and the requisite half gallon of Vodka, nearly empty of course. But all still cold as hell, with ice chunks still floating in the frigid water. I lassoed and rounded up stray chairs, many of whom I have yet to discover belonged to. They are amassed into a herd, waiting patiently to be collected by their respective owners. I even found an open fifth of Seagram’s 7, still wrapped in it’s little brown paper bag, sitting alone in the yard, likely abandoned in the flurry of goodnights. I think it belonged to my oldest son.

The effects of a night of partying do NOT go as well for some as for others. I know of several hangovers, slow movers with headaches who were about today. And the said oldest son of mine spent the early morning hours hugging the goddess of the toilet. But even after 3 hours of steady work de-confetti- ing my yard, from the pasture fence to the middle of the highway, it has to be admitted that a good time was had by all. And Mom, I know you were there, watching over our shoulders, fussing about the drinkers and enjoying the festivities. Next year, we will attempt to do you proud once again. And, like yesterday, I know you will be there. We love you.