If you live in Pittsburgh, you have to deal with the hills. No two ways about it. At the same time, over the course of the past year my wife and I have questioned our decision to live at the very top of one of the biggest, steepest ones.
Our kids were two-weeks-old when we got here, and living on a cliff limited our ability to do simple things like take a walk. (You try pushing a double stroller up Columbia Avenue. Now try it two-weeks postpartum.) But we brought it on ourselves and learned to deal with it.
But now I am happy to report that living on top of one of the biggest hills in Pittsburgh can be a fabulous experience. Especially if you step out on your porch this time of year.
Kennywood has been going bonkers with fireworks. But from where we sit, that is only a tiny portion of the action. For the past few days the entire Mon Valley has been ablaze with pyrotechnics. Last night I felt a little embarrassed because I could not tell which town was doing the celebrating. Were the rockets coming from Rankin or Braddock? The east end of Swissvale? I felt much better when the guy next door stepped out on to his porch and had the same exact conversation with his wife.
But this brings me to my larger point: You know where the fireworks are REALLY coming from?
Everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere.
It appears to me that laws banning the sale and use of fireworks must be the most ignored in all the land. Seriously. Because once the government-sanctioned shows at Kennywood and the various towns die down, the sky really lights up around here. Boom! Crackle! Smash! It is the glorious sound of laws being broken.*
And I am not talking little bottle rockets or sparklers. The kids in this neighborhood are packing some serious firepower. Huge, cascading mushrooms in neon blue and green. Crrrrraaaaaacccckkkk!!!! Zip Boom! Zip Boom! Zip Boom!
It goes all night long. My wife enjoys the show, although she wishes it would end a little earlier. What with the babies and all. But really. We would never dream of calling the cops or anything. Let them have their fun. And if the babies wake up? Doesn't seem like all that high of a price to pay for living in a place that has some joy. (Too bad some people aren't so tolerant.)
Yes, I know. The price is higher for some people. Someone is going to lose an eye. Or a finger. Or God forbid, his life. (It's always a "he," somehow.) But it appears that the number of accidents is decreasing as the sale of fireworks, well, skyrockets. Let people decide for themselves, I say.
And for now, I live on a hill in Pittsburgh. So to all you scofflaws in Braddock and Rankin and Swissvale and East Pittsburgh and Edgewood:
Thanks for the show.
And by the way, I am not the only one who looks at pointless danger with at least some degree of nostalgia. Check out this outstanding piece in the Washington Post. (Registration, and all that. But it's free and well worth it. It even has grandmothers complaining about restrictions on real fireworks.)
Maybe pointless danger isn't that pointless after all.
SSSSSSSSSSSS.....BOOM!
Happy Fourth of July.
*Update: Before I catch a lot of flack: When I speak of the "glorious sound of laws being broken," I am referring, of course, to certain laws. As an example, I also like these scofflaws. Yes. I know. We are a society of laws. And a law is a law. And respect for the law. Still. Sometimes a bit of rebellion is refreshing. Which times? That, I think, is the central question facing anyone seeking to define a truly civil society. Good luck!
Comments