The Fourth is over. I did get to light the smoke bombs and ran through the smoke.
I say "ran," but I guess hobbled is a more accurate -- but pesky -- term. I imagined I was running. About two years ago I got my son to go with me to help rescue a lil' kitten from a nearby alley. I had been "taming" him and wanted to try to catch him and get him home. So we went, and the kitty came up for the food, and I popped a pillowcase over him and started running for home.
I thought I was running. I kept panting out, "We got to hurry, he's making a hole in the pillowcase!" to my son, then noticed he was jog-walking. Backwards. Slowly jogging backwards, facing me and grinning, while I was running full speed forwards. That's when it really hit me: I'm old. A dead snail can outrun me.
By the way, the title of this post is supposed to be sardonic. No, dearies, that doesn't mean it has something to do with atomic sardines.
Here is a jar full of summer. I picked those polkadots right off the polkadot plant just fer this graphic. Ow! The stickers on that plant! Right-click to save.