Our town has its summer fireworks display in late June as part of its annual celebration of itself. I don’t know if this move from July 4^th is because fireworks rates are cheaper in June, or if we’re collectively sticking it to Mr. Jefferson, or if we’ve quietly switched over to the Julian Calendar. I’m sure there’s solid reasoning is behind it. It’s a win-win for us; a week later we drive to the next town over (their board members haven’t read the most recent socially corrective scolding from Vanity Fair Online) to watch their morally tainted display.

This year my wife and some friends went to our town’s annual self-congratulation early, to sit in the beer tent. I don’t want you to get the idea my wife is a big beer drinker; she is not. In fact, she never touches a drop of the stuff. Not a single drop. She snuck a bladder of wine in with her.

My job was to bring Buster and Big Man to the event in time for the fireworks. The boys had a friend over, and they were having so much fun playing together, they decided to skip the pyrotechnics altogether.

Just as I settled into the idea of sticking around the house, the friend went home, leaving Buster and Big Man each with only a brother to play with. As any brother can tell you, this is unacceptable. Suddenly steeped in abysmal boredom, both boys decided they would like to see the fireworks after all.

Now we were late. As we drove, we saw the beginning of the display from the car. The boys became eager to get to the action, but we were stopped a particularly long red light.

No other cars were visible. “Just go through the light,” Big Man instructed.

“I’m not getting a ticket so you can see the fireworks you didn’t want to see five minutes ago,” I said.

“Just go through it,” Buster demanded. “Mom would!”

“No. She wouldn’t go through this one.” I know Mom does what she has to do to compress time, but this was a major intersection, quiet only because everyone was at the fireworks show.

“She would totally run this!” Big Man insisted.

“Yeah,” Buster agreed. “Because she’s late, and she has someplace to be, and nobody is here, and she’s grumpy. That’s four reasons to run the light, and Mom only needs two.”

“And Mom’s always grumpy when she drives,” Big Man piled on. “So she only really needs one.”

While they were listing the reasons to run the light, it turned green. We got to see some of the fireworks in the open air.

When we caught up to Mom, she wasn’t grumpy at all – probably because she had no idea just how far under the bus her kids had thrown her.

Editor’s Note: There is no admissible evidence that any person named herein has actually run a red light or is a grumpy driver. Any insinuation of either occurrence is merely hearsay.