Or…the day I became a terrorist.
Fireworks. The mere word creates images in your mind of towering spires of multi-colored sparks, high pitched shrieks of spinning pinwheels and the acrid scent of gunpowder and burnt paper. Though J-Dam’s and Smart bombs could be viewed by some as grown up fireworks, one does not normally associate an innocent firework with their deadly counterpart.
In many states fireworks are illegal, California is one of those many. However, they are not illegal in Wyoming or Idaho, where I happened to be traveling at the time. The most direct and beautiful route from Ashton, Idaho to Cody, Wyoming is through the Park. What Park, you ask? THE Park, Yellowstone National Park. The crown jewel of all our National Parks, the original, the Grandfather, the reason we have national parks. If you have never been, I highly recommend you stop what you are doing, catch a plane or a train or a magic carpet and get your booty to Yellowstone. You will not regret it. But I digress…
One of the first landmarks of civilization that assault your senses upon exiting the Park at its eastern gate, Black Cat Fireworks Superstore! Picture a large grocery store, with shopping carts and all, each aisle piled high with explosives of all kind. After visiting with my cousin and her family, I stopped at this mecca of volatile bliss. Perusing up and down each aisle, overwhelmed at the firepower, I selected some small tokens of contraband to enjoy back home in my firework adverse state.
Back in my hotel I surveyed my new acquisitions, opening packages, reading directions, imaging the fun I will have on the Fourth of July. Not once was I ever concerned about trace elements, residue, fingerprints, cross-contamination, or other such CSI affairs. Why would I be? I’m not a criminal. At least not yet…
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