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One of my favorite holidays growing up was Independence Day (you know, July 4th?). It wasn’t because I was insanely patriotic or overly excited to be celebrating America’s birthday. It was because of gunpowder. At no other time of year could you expect to see young children gleefully playing with matches, lighters and highly combustible compounds.

Going to a fireworks stand was like going to a candy store. All the brightly colored packaging, Chinese characters, and dramatic names for tightly rolled paper, sticks and fuses. Ladyfingers. Missile Batteries. Bottle Rockets. Smoke Grenades. It was a boyhood dream come true. The idea was to build an arsenal that would be sure to shock and awe the neighbors.

Being young boys, my brother and I didn’t quite practice the safe and proper use of fireworks and soon learned to deny such pavement pleasures like Jumping Jacks and Snakes for something more ‘long range’ like the bottle rocket. In those days surrounding the fourth we recruited scores of neighborhood boys to line up for short range skirmishes. Looking back now, it was miraculous that none of us were seriously hurt. The worst I got was a bottle rocket to my face and, thankfully, no scars.

Now that I have two boys of my own there’s a bit of an understanding when it comes to fireworks. It is no longer legal to shoot bottle rockets (probably for the best) so we only purchase the ‘S’ class variety – sparklers, snaps, smoke balls and snakes. I guess these could still be considered ‘gateway fireworks’ to the more destructive variety, but the worst we can expect now is a few unsightly scorch marks on the pavement rather than exploded or burned fingers. Knowing that they’re wired to pursue more creative ways to use explosives as they get older I make it a point to never talk to them about ‘the war’ and my near brush with danger.

Everybody loves a parade. Well, at least the kids look forward to the candy. It’s been a tradition for years to attend the parade in my hometown over the Fourth and every year I wonder what constitutes a parade float. I don’t know if the standards were ever set too high, but lately it seems all you need to do is slap a magnetic sign on the side of your sports car, wave a flag and toss candy. Aside from the occasional marching band, or color guard, it’s more like a slow moving traffic commercial that only gets longer during the political season. I realize it takes time, effort and money to decorate and construct a float, and I’m not expecting the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, but maybe a little more effort would make it worth going to. I can buy a bag of tootsie rolls and plant my lawn chair on the curb to watch slow-moving traffic any day.

It’s so hot out there the trees are whistling for dogs! I know some people love it when it gets this hot because to them that’s what summer should be. I’d just as soon take the milder 70s and 80s. I figure I can always throw on a layer if I get too cold. Admittedly, days like this make the subzero days of mid-January seem far, far away.

Who says summer television has to be crappy? When ‘Wipeout’ aired two seasons ago as fodder for the traditionally vacant summer months, we were there to take it like a boxing glove to the groin. Admittedly, it has become one of our family’s guilty pleasures. If you’ve never sat through this hour-long comedic game show, it’s a bit like ‘American Gladiators’ meets ‘Takeshi’s Castle’. Contestants make their way through some zany obstacles to advance to the final round where, if they complete the ‘Wipeout Zone’ in the time alotted, they will walk – or limp – away with $50,000.

Part of what makes this simple formula work is the constant puns and ribbing done by the hosts John Anderson (ESPN’s straight man anchor) and comedian John Henson (of ‘Talk Soup’ beginnings). The contestants that sign up to endure the pugilistic punishment of this show are usually interesting enough in their own special way (think Wal-Mart people-watching) which makes their uncoordinated, tendon-snapping, whiplash-inducing acrobatics all the more humorous to watch. Like Roman citizens at the Coliseum we are entertained by the physical misfortunes of these hapless victims. Of course, having the Johns voice-over sophomoric innuendos with the phrase ‘Big Balls’ certainly helps.

Four years ago I built a treehouse for my boys in the crook of our backyard apple tree. Well, it was more the size of a treestand because I was aiming to build it cheaply using only scraps that I found in my garage. Considering the small size of the project it didn’t take long to build and almost immediately the boys relished the novelty that was: having a secluded platform six feet off the ground. It didn’t take long for them to literally outgrow that tiny porch in the branches and I became increasingly disheartened about their lack of interest in it. About two years ago, hoping to rejuvenate their interest, I mentioned adding on to it to make it bigger. Well, they didn’t let me forget those words and, after years of talking about it, we began the expansion on Sunday. It’s about triple the size and, when complete, will have a hidden door in the floor to keep unwanted visitors out.

I can’t help but get a little excited about working on projects like this because I can remember what it’s like to be a boy. Growing up, us neighbor kids built a number of treehouses together in the expanse of forested land bordering the street we grew up on. Needless to say our distance from these ‘forts’ almost guaranteed that some neighborhood ‘big kids’ (aka bullies) would be sure to tear them down (usually by morning). To think that a half dozen construction efforts in my childhood were destroyed because some dinks got their jollies from it, is maddening. I guess in some small way, my getting charged about doing this treehouse for my own boys is for all the ones we ‘lost’ when I was a kid. I can only hope they will appreciate it as much as I do.

Summer is great because I get to set my own schedule (more or less). It’s great when you want to do something for yourself or with family and friends, but I have a tendency to schedule little to no time for, uh, … ‘nothing’. I find that there are simply not enough hours in the day to get all the things I want to do done. My life is over-scheduled and I know it. Most days I work more than I rest. It’s well within my ability to say ‘no’ to certain things and ‘yes’ to a little R and R. I just wish I could convince myself that I have permission to do so. How fitting that even this blog posting is later than I wanted it to be.

This weekend Bismarck is hosting an over-abundance of softball players for the 35th Annual Sam McQuade Sr. Charity Softball Tournament. It’s likely that sunscreen sales are down this year but umbrellas have to be up. As the father of two baseballers and an avid camper I can certainly sympathize with the players who had rain-outs due to this ‘lovely’ North Dakota June we’ve been having (and those who are pitching tent in this humid and turbulent weather). I doubt the flash-flood producing thunderstorms have dampened the spirits of any McQuade veterans. This event has essentially made Bismarck the ‘Sturgis of Softball’ for all the players and fans. To those die-hards I say ‘good luck’ on the rest of the tournament… and surviving the weekend weather.

I never understood why the local hardware giants spent all that money to create roofs over their lumberyards. I still end up sifting through piles of warped, knotty and broken pieces to find what I’m looking for. And it doesn’t help that the guy that was there before you didn’t bother to stack any of his rejects in a separate pile. Instead it’s like hunting through an over-sized heap of french fries in search of the best ones. Who knew that the process of selecting wood for a project could actually take longer than the project itself?

Yes, it’s that time of year again. The annual tradition of sending the DOT some money in return for a pair of colorful, reflective vinyl stickers to affix to my license plates, proving that I am, in fact, driving a registered vehicle. It’s probably been a while, but when you get brand new plates there’s a little indication of where said decals are to be placed. My guess? This is done to ensure that a lawful officer can easily spot the license tabs and determine whether or not to issue you a warning or ticket for expired vehicle registration. Granted, over a period of several years, the overlapping decals make one thick vinyl ‘sandwich’ that will most likely need to be peeled away to the original plate surface (if possible at all).

I have seen at least one registered vehicle whose owner obviously decided to be a little more ‘creative’ with where to place these stickers: like wherever they’d fit. Yes, I can imagine that nothing quite pleases an officer more than having to play ‘Where’s Waldo?’ to hunt down the current sticker with the most recent month and year. This decal graffiti artist, if pulled over, might be just as far ahead flipping the aggravated officer the bird. I would think that there is a law prohibiting such practice, but the rainbow frame of decals around this driver’s plates indicated a history of about twenty years of noncompliance.

The oldest has a birthday coming up, so he decided (with a little help) that he wanted a new bike. Well, it wasn’t so much ‘wanted’ as it was ‘needed’. I never realized how many bikes a kid can go through as they grow (four and counting). He was starting to look like a bear riding a circus bike. His knees were nearly hitting the handlebars and his toes just missed scraping the ground. Based on the visual evidence alone there wasn’t much of an argument against it. What closed the deal was him finding one he really liked.

Naturally, little brother gets the hand-me-downs which, ironically enough, he is quite okay with. Probably because he knows that it doesn’t count as his birthday gift. He insists on riding his old bike for a while because it still has the pedal brake. Mastering the handle brakes will take some time. Considering his history with freak bike accidents (a broken arm two years ago), Mom and I are quite all right with it.