It’s an American ritual.  All over America, it happens.  It’s probably the one thing we do in unison (separated only by time zones), and we do it in much the same way. 

We gather up the family and head out for a 4th of July picnic of burgers, hot dogs and watermelon, or perhaps something more nouveau and color-coordinated – strawberry salsa, sun-dried tomato and roasted pepper dip, white ceviche, blue corn cakes, blueberry ice-cream and coconut macadamia truffles. 

Totally stuffed with picnic fare, we settle in to watch what we know will be a fabulous show in the summer nighttime sky. We stretch out on  blankets, lounge in lawn chairs, take our place in bleachers, lean on riverboat rails and look up, eagerly anticipating the first burst of sound and color.  Suddenly out of the darkness, streaks of gold, green, purple, red, white, or blue shoot up, exploding overhead in spectacular shapes –  starbursts, chrysanthemums, cascades - each ending in golden sparkles drizzling down in glittering rain.  Old or young, cynic or starry-eyed, we are dazzled.  And, as we eargerly anticipate the next rapid-fire surprise we tell each other that this is the best ever.    

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