4th of July

     “A series of aerial shells,” the announcer would say, or maybe “aerial bursts”.  He always sounded like he had a mouthful of cotton or dry mashed potatoes with his nose plugged up.  Sometimes you could see a shadowy figure take a few steps, extend a torch for a moment, then back away rapidly.

    Fwoomp!  Then either a breath-stopping kaboom, or maybe a less-noisy octopus would send out its short-lived colorful tentacles showering down towards the spectators, fading out well before they hit the ground.  A pause of several seconds and the process would be repeated. 

    The finale would be some kind of ground display such as a flag that would take a while to light up and then burn brightly for several seconds.

    Most years it would happen on the eve of July 4^th—July 3.  Many times it wasn’t a very happy occasion.  That first week of July often brought a hail storm that wiped out the wheat crop when I was a kid, promising another lean year ahead.

     This year, the Limon annual fireworks display took place on Saturday, July 5.  I was giving the Versatile swather its annual exercise, cutting the tall grass around the farm yard, when the Goodwife ventured out with a newspaper clipping in her hand.

 It was the schedule of events for the big weekend.  I correctly inferred that she wanted to attend the big event.  The last time we went, the 30 minute display stretched over an hour and a half as five or six firemen had to be hauled, in three separate trips, to the hospital fifteen miles away, via ambulance, to be treated for burns.  The show couldn’t go on until another ambulance was on hand, so two or three big gaps in the action gave the bleachers ample time to turn to granite. 

      This year’s show couldn’t have been more different.  It didn’t quite rival a Rockies fireworks show, but it started about 9:30 and ended before 9:45.  The announcer didn’t have a chance to get a word in edgewise.  Apparently, the firemen hired a lady consultant who helped them plan, set up, and computerize the show. 

      Dutch’s Recreation having closed some 40 years ago, we skipped the after-show beer and came home.     

      So far, we have skipped the hail storm this year, too.  Time to gird up for harvest.  Step one:  ready the grain bin.

    Three hundred feet of extension cord made it possible to use the shop vac. Not quite so much dust in the air, plus a much better job getting into the tight spots.  Next step, break out the ancient reaping equipment.

    Get the trucks out, then the swather, finally the combine.

    Only one retired occupant remains in the combine shed.  Now, a day or two of rolling around beneath the trucks, wrenches and grease gun in hand; crawling up and down combine ladders (which have grown strangely steeper and longer); attaching header, an finally, out to test the wheat.

     Sod wheat apparently ripens much earlier than “regular” wheat.

    My wheat on the right, the neighbors’ on the left.  But, it wasn’t all work and no play this week.  We visited some long-time friends.

     Of course we donned regalia appropriate to the season.