Tonight, we climbed to the highest place in the valley to get the best seats in the house for the fireworks. Leaning on the railing, there was a great view of the town, coifed in an undulating carpet of trees, framed by the hills and the surrounding mountains. A strong, cool wind after a brutally hot day made the drive well worth it, on any night.

A frail looking old man, wearing a Naval cap, pulled up to the railing next to me and asked, "How y'all doing?" to which I answered, "Well, I'm in America. I'm holding an ice cream cone, I'm waiting for the fireworks and no one bashed in my front door today to try and take me away."

"Damn right," he said, bobbing his head, "Got that right."

He continued..."We aught to be thankful that these will be the only rockets bursting in our air tonight. The kids today...they don't know." He looked down and bit his lower lip.

The fireworks lasted a long time...maybe 45 minutes. One rocket...one salute at a time. It was mellow compared to a big city extravaganza, but standing next to this old Vet, it seemed to have a different purpose than to entertain. There was no doubt that he was remembering why the fireworks were being displayed on this night. And when they were over, I heard him say, "Thank you." He patted me on the back as he walked away, alone and I watched him as he made his way down the hill, like a ghost.

No...thank you...