Serving...

I sat and watched the rockets' red glare and the bombs bursting in air last night with the family and friends-homemade vanilla ice cream to pass. My favorite couple had matching red, white and blue flag shirts on. They purchased these beauties at the Bass Pro Shops.

Of course they did.

I love fireworks. I mean to the point that they actually give me joy. It's the whole multi-sensory experience. I feel the percussion of the artillery shells in my belly. The smell of gunpowder and the lights exploding. During a really good show I have been known to laugh hysterically with tears running down my face.

I'm an odd duck, I know. I look the fool.

This year, while engaging in said spectacle, I thought of our men and women overseas. When they come home, will they ever view fireworks in the same way?

I have a friend that served in the Marines during Desert Storm. He told me that only unexpected fireworks really bothered him, but the first time he heard storm sirens after coming home, he freaked out a little. But he said that was just him. Different things affect different people-and for different lengths of time.

My dad served in Korea. He was 16 when he joined-lied about his age. Helicopters bothered him.

My grandpa served in the Pacific theatre in WWII. He wouldn't talk about it much at all, but certain smells would make him nauseous-smells that the rest of us couldn't even pick up.

So, when they come home, what will bring them joy and what will cause them pain?

Suddenly, I feel the fool.