Dear Mayor,
I am writing a letter (well, maybe a diatribe disguised as a letter) in regards to the anonymous citizens of our fair town who have suddenly taken an obsessive interest in releasing fireworks every Saturday evening at approximately 8:45 P.M. Although as an American I can certainly appreciate the inherent fact that fireworks are a means to publicly express one’s celebratory disposition toward (traditionally) our nation’s anniversary, or perhaps a significant lifetime milestone (such as a wedding or the birth of a child), I simply cannot fathom the purpose of firing off these loud and obnoxious tools on such a stringent schedule, especially during a time of night traditionally reserved for the bedtimes of young children. Mine are aged six and three, respectively, and thus you can imagine the thrust behind this letter’s true purpose.
Indeed, my kids need their sleep, and if they do not sleep, then neither do I. Furthermore, I cannot stress enough that the weekends are my only time to catch-up on this much-needed sleep, and any citizens (celebratory or otherwise) of my beloved town who would choose to release fireworks every Saturday evening at precisely 8:45 P.M. (and would continue such a flagrant charade until approximately 11:00 P.M.) would not represent (at least in my humble opinion) the highest quality of Huntingburgians. Are these the individuals we want embodying our municipality? As a lifelong resident, college graduate, and selective firer of fireworks only on the Fourth of July, I THINK NOT.
Now, let me be honest and admit that I’ve tried to simply deal with this initially mild disturbance. That first weekend when I became aware of these fireworks (and my own mounting frustration at them), I attempted myriad methods to ignore the incessant booms shrieking just outside my window. I turned the air-conditioner to its highest setting. I covered my head with a pillow. I let my kids sleep in the bed with me in an obviously desperate attempt to lull them back to dreamland. When those frantic attempts failed to assuage the garish auditory onslaught, I tried to watch Iron Man (to clarify, the one with Robert Downey Jr., a distinction I hope you appreciate) with the volume up high to drown out what sounded like malicious cannons from the Revolutionary War. That, Mr. Mayor, was just the first night.
During the second weekend’s raid, I became so upset that I actually got into my mini-van (still in my pajamas) and literally drove around the neighborhood at about 5 MPH, trying to locate the dimwits citizens who were once again invading my nice, relaxing Saturday evening. What I intended to do when I found the individuals responsible never entered my mind—which my baffled husband pointed out later had probably been lost at some point during the violent bursts of fireworks. It is my respectful hope that you can begin to see why ceasing such unnecessary and out-of-season demonstrations is vitally important to my own wellbeing (and that of my family).
Of course, being an educated woman, I conducted a bit of late-night, curse-riddled research on the third weekend, to compile fireworks-related data before transcribing this diatribe letter. Perhaps, most frustrating of all, was the ultimate realization that the state of Indiana actually has laws to protect these dim-witted citizens of our otherwise perfect hometown. (Okay, likely not those actual individuals, probably more like the fireworks companies who want to continue to maintain revenue during the off-season—aka anytime other than July Fourth. Whatev.) Still, in my sleep-deprived psychosis, I hoped to find some sort of ammunition that I might fire back in defense against these transgressors of sleepy-time. Instead? Instead, I unwittingly discovered they actually have the right to interrupt my evenings 365 nights a year, as long as they wrap up such debauchery by 11:00 P.M. (9 P.M. on a Sunday night). WHAT?
In retrospect, I should probably leave my fireworks frustrations where they belong—in my husband’s ear—but for an English teacher, writer, and blogger like me, they had to be captured in words, forever frozen in time like an ancient dinosaur’s DNA in mosquito blood ensconced within amber. So here they are, Mr. Mayor, written during an angst-ridden fourth weekend of never-ending fireworks, though I now realize there is absolutely nothing you can do about them. The individuals responsible for decimating my beloved Saturday evenings—four weeks IN A ROW now—can simply continue their ridiculous pattern of fireworks charades for as long as they can afford them. Unfortunately, there is nothing I, you, or the state of Indiana can do to halt them. But it is my hope that, if you live anywhere near my neighborhood and share in my brain-shattering frustrations, you might one night ride shotgun with me as I attempt, once again, to locate these people. Then, since we can’t do anything legally to curtail their rampant stupidity, we can at least be waiting maniacally at their curbs at 4 A.M. the next morning, ready to honk our horns, wish them top of the mornin’ via megaphone, or perhaps play them a lively breakfast melody on the Djembe (African drum that literally vibrates for miles, ironically a bit like fireworks themselves).
In retrospect, I should probably leave my fireworks frustrations where they belong—in my husband’s ear—but for an English teacher, writer, and blogger like me, they had to be captured in words, forever frozen in time like an ancient dinosaur’s DNA in mosquito blood ensconced within amber. So here they are, Mr. Mayor, written during an angst-ridden fourth weekend of never-ending fireworks, though I now realize there is absolutely nothing you can do about them. The individuals responsible for decimating my beloved Saturday evenings—four weeks IN A ROW now—can simply continue their ridiculous pattern of fireworks charades for as long as they can afford them. Unfortunately, there is nothing I, you, or the state of Indiana can do to halt them. But it is my hope that, if you live anywhere near my neighborhood and share in my brain-shattering frustrations, you might one night ride shotgun with me as I attempt, once again, to locate these people. Then, since we can’t do anything legally to curtail their rampant stupidity, we can at least be waiting maniacally at their curbs at 4 A.M. the next morning, ready to honk our horns, wish them top of the mornin’ via megaphone, or perhaps play them a lively breakfast melody on the Djembe (African drum that literally vibrates for miles, ironically a bit like fireworks themselves).
If you say yes, then you are officially my favorite citizen of Huntingburg.
Sincerely,
Me
Me
P.S. I bet those fireworks farters couldn’t even pronounce half the words in this diatribe.
P.P.S. My husband thinks I may be overreacting a bit to this entire fiasco, but then again, he’s not an over-worked mom, so he doesn’t get an opinion in this matter. Or any, for that matter. But I thank him for staying up and finishing Iron Man with me.
P.P.P.S. I didn’t actually mail this letter, but I did post it to my blog! ;)
