When it comes to July 4th celebrations, our little island goes all out.

Since over the years I have a) successfully conquered my fireworks phonophobia (i.e. fear of loud bang-bangs) and b) made friends with someone who lives directly across from where our incredible, community-supported show is lit, I am now all-in on this once-a-year explosion of beauty.

But even as I’m making up for decades of fireworks avoidance, oohing and ahhing, I can’t help thinking about…you know. The flip side of this tradition.

What about the pollution? Doesn’t a bunch of crud rain down into our beloved Salish Sea?

Is blowing stuff up really the best way to show our joy? Could all that money be raised for something more peaceful?

What about people who suffer from PTSD? What about the poor animals?

Hey, I GET it. I’m not a killjoy. It’s taken me six decades to experience the joy of fireworks–I’m not about to smother it with a wet blanket. I just can’t help thinking…

In the summer of 2024, what exactly are we celebrating?

I HOPE it’s our common love for our land and our social contract. But right now that love feels more like a tender flame to be guarded than a big, happy explosion.

Riding my bike home after a bakery shift on July 5, I looked up to see this Great Horned Owl staring down at me from a fir tree.

It was 2 pm. Not owl time. And yet there it was, huge golden eyes fastened on me like an interrogation. Like, Were you the one asking what should be celebrated?

Soon I’ll be leaving Lopez again for another foray into the land of interstates–a.k.a., California Roadtrip. But as this small island community slips behind me, I’ll be looking for the equivalent of daytime owls all along our way.

No explosions–just a quiet celebration of what is available to us if we have enough sense not to mess it up.