Dad offhandedly mentioned that he told you the story, but I thought I’d take a minute or two to set the record straight.
To give you some context, it was a really cold winter. While you might be asking what that has to do with the story, consider how few things there are to do in Minnesota when the windchill brings the temperature below -70F. Anything you would do becomes way more about survival than it does about having fun.
So that night, when Jonathan suggested we try to make our own fireworks, it really seemed like a good idea at the time. Please excuse the cliche, dear cousin, but there isn’t a better way to put it than that.
We assumed that since everything was covered in snow, it meant that everything was fireproof. Snow is water, after all.
The only reason the fire marshall didn’t charge us with negligent arson was on account of how cold it was. Not because he was feeling merciful, but because his pen wouldn’t write. He made us stand outside the whole time they were putting out the blaze, gave us a long glare that made us think he was quite capable of murder, and that was that.
Any mention of us laughing, joking, teasing the marshall, dancing around the flames, or requesting that we do it again, are all gross exaggerations. We took the matter quite seriously, and have never attended an Independence Day celebration out of reverence.
See you at Christmas,