Assistant (to the) editor

By Melissa Tucker

Sober on the Fourth

Posted July 8, 2008

For the first time, the Tucker family did more than just talk about having the Fourth of July party at my house.

We actually did.

Rather than breaking the law in Sherwood, the fam headed to my Saline County backyard to set them off legally. And in the process, scared the living daylights out of my poor dogs.

Of course, they would have been scared had we continued the Sherwood tradition because they would have been left at home amongst the war zone sounds of the county.

But that was last year.

In honor of our nation's birthday, the celebration started with plenty of alcohol — mostly Corona, white Russians and Sangria. (I guess the drinks weren't as patriotic as they could have been.) Everyone (except me, because I'm not a fan of fetal alcohol syndrome) started early with the drinking while we waited for the grill to finish cooking the corn and for the rain to stop.

When the clouds cleared, the fireworks were unleashed — with the bottle rocket being the preferred method of noisemaking.

At this point, the dogs suddenly preferred to be sequestered indoors.

The boys at the party liked to aim the bottle rockets at each other — I know this is dangerous, but they're all adults, and there's really no stopping them.

And I suddenly preferred the company of the dogs ... indoors.

Right before we sat down to eat, the first fireworks mishap occurred.

A friend of my brother-in-law aimed a bottle rocket at my father-in-law's feet and somehow it landed in the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. He didn't notice because he was shooting a Roman candle at the time.

They yelled at him, "get it out of your pocket!" and he looked down in time to pull the shirt away from his chest right before it exploded.

He was miraculously unhurt, but his shirt had a charred, gaping hole in the front.

Luckily, we had another Hawaiian shirt for him. Apparently, that's the way we roll at my house.

After lunch, the fireworks resumed and the same friend lit a firecracker with a propeller. We had no idea what it did, but it somehow found its way under the deck's roof, zoomed right over my head and started exploding behind me. I ducked, covered and ran as fast as my pregnant belly would let me.

Again, no one was hurt, but the guy decided not to light anything else for the rest of the night.

We all agreed that was a fabulous idea.

But I'm sure by next year we'll have forgotten how dangerous he is and the process will start all over again.