The Fourth of July is America’s annual celebration of freedom…and our willingness to hand explosives to people whose biggest engineering achievement is successfully assembling a charcoal grill. It’s the one day Americans collectively decide that the best way to celebrate freedom is to ignite small explosives just a few feet from our faces. What could possibly go wrong? Because nothing says “Happy Birthday, America!” like lighting a fuse and hoping for the best.

Every neighborhood has THAT guy. You know the one. He doesn’t merely buy fireworks. He arrives home with enough pyrotechnics to finance a military campaign. You know they’re coming because his garage looks like a roadside fireworks stand exploded. The show always begins at 3:00 in the afternoon. Now, I don’t claim to be a fireworks expert, but I’m fairly certain the entire appeal involves seeing them against a dark sky. At three o’clock, all you see is smoke and Carl standing in his driveway yelling, “Did you see that one?” No, Carl. None of us saw that one. All we saw was smoke. By sunset, however, Carl has moved on to the grand finale—a display powerful enough to register on the Richter scale. Windows rattle. Car alarms go off. Babies cry. Dogs start questioning every life choice that brought them to this neighborhood.

Speaking of dogs… If you’ve ever owned one, you know that Independence Day is less a celebration and more an annual canine apocalypse. The same Labrador that fearlessly chases delivery trucks suddenly believes the world is ending because someone two streets over launched what must be a nuclear weapon, and the brave dog is now wedged behind the washing machine.

Meanwhile, pet owners spend the evening pretending everything is perfectly normal. “Who’s a good boy? That’s just America celebrating!” The dog isn’t buying it. Neither is the cat, who vanished sometime yesterday.

Then there’s the food. For reasons known only to our founding fathers—or perhaps our cardiologists—we celebrate by eating enough processed meat to supply a baseball stadium. Hot dogs. Hamburgers. Brats. Potato salad that’s been sitting in the sun just long enough to become a public health experiment. Watermelon that somehow attracts every bee within a five-mile radius. And one mysterious Jell-O salad that nobody admits to bringing. Every family picnic has that bowl that returns home just as full as when it arrived.

And the backyard grill masters. These are men who haven’t cooked a meal since Labor Day but suddenly become culinary legends because they’re standing next to propane. They wear aprons that say things like “King of the Grill.” Nobody elected them. But, somehow, holding a pair of tongs transforms them into Gordon Ramsay. “Everybody back! I’ve got this!” Sir, chill out. It’s just a few hot dogs.

Children, meanwhile, are running through the yard with sparklers. Adults believe sparklers are harmless, but in actuality, they are handing children what is essentially a tiny welding torch and saying, “Be careful.” Children immediately discover they can write their names in the air, chase siblings, and burn tiny holes in lawn chairs. And it’s all fun and games until someone gets a spark in the eye. Just sayin’.

Each Fourth of July, we air the patriotic music that we only hear once a year. Every parade, concert, and community celebration eventually reaches the point where someone plays “God Bless America,” followed immediately by “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” Half the audience sings. The other half quietly mouths whatever words seem patriotic enough. I personally have enormous respect for the people who remember every lyric. I usually make it through the first line before transitioning into confident humming.

As darkness falls, lawn chairs appear as if summoned by federal law. Entire communities gather outside to watch the sky explode into reds, blues, golds, and enough smoke to hide a small mountain. For about twenty glorious minutes, everyone stops arguing. Nobody’s checking their phones. Nobody’s discussing politics. Neighbors who haven’t spoken all year sit side by side, pointing upward like delighted children.

“Ooooh.”

“Ahhhh.”

And maybe that’s the best part of the Fourth of July. Despite the smoke, mosquito bites, overcooked burgers, frightened pets, and enough calories to feed a football team, it’s still one of my favorite holidays. For one evening, we’re reminded that despite our differences, we can still gather around a grill, wave a flag, eat far too much, comfort terrified pets, and admire the same spectacular fireworks. Just preferably after dark, and maybe a little farther away from Carl. But if we can all agree that colorful things blowing up in the sky are beautiful, perhaps there’s still hope for us after all.

What did you and your family do for the Fourth Of July? Send me your funny moments.