Some fireworks have interesting names. “America Fights Back” was the name of the grand finale last night at our neighborhood block party. Fourth of July fireworks turn men into boys. The women, some men, and a few children sat in lawn chairs on the sidewalk and watched: a man who gave his nephew the thrill of setting off the kind of rocket that is not available at the fireworks stand, another man who found it easier to light the fireworks while holding them in his hand and then set them down on the street once the fuse was going, and yet another exercised slightly more caution than the night before when a rocket tipped over after it was lit and hit the neighbor’s front window.

As I was trying to fall asleep last night, I counted 11 households in our neighborhood who came to the barbeque and fireworks. But what was most surprising to me was that we had spent nearly five hours with our neighbors.