land of the free

Ah, the Fourth of July approaches, a time of year when my neighborhood, already dripping with charm and class – concrete yards featuring red rocks in a star formation, plastic likenesses of Winnie-the-Pooh playing golf, woodland creatures peering out of two-foot chainlink fences – adds kiosk after kiosk of fireworks for sale. I mean, what's a vacant lot for, anyway?

A couple miles in any direction and they're illegal. But not here. No. Here, in my neighborhood where you are far more likely to spot a parole car circling than you are that cute little downtown bus they've dressed up like a trolley, you can buy your very own piece of independence to shoot off at your leisure.

Oh, but don't worry, most of those kiosks are sponsored by the churches. They are fundraisers, since selling dynamite is clearly the Lord's work. And if they continue to wake my baby up with their holy thunder, I'm planning on kicking them from here to the here after.

Imitating bombs. This is what we've come up with for entertainment and, unbelievably, a feeling of freedom.

In an effort to tire Isaac out enough to sleep through the racket, I often take him to the park in the afternoons. We have several in walking distance. The closest one is the least impressive of the lot, but it has Isaac's favorite swings.

I push him “high-high” on the “wee-wah” as instructed, over the glass-riddled sand, until his feet reach above the roofs of the pimped out El Caminos stopping at the corner market for chips and beer, out toward the line of cypress and across to the ocean, his “big water,” until he is giddy, the wind stealing his breath, and he finds another freedom, sees a way out.