I did not get to watch the fireworks this evening. Although they sounded just lovely. It wasn't out of protest that this was a July 2nd celebration, nor was I boycotting to demonstrate my lack of support for the themed parade. I held the baby. I figured, as tired as this kid is, he would probably be able to sleep through most of it as long as I rocked him. He, in fact, snored through the whole damn thing. Can't sleep through the jingles on the dog's collar, but he can sleep through the entire Independence Day display?

An interesting thing happened, though, while I was rocking him in the darkened room. I had a chance to exercise my considerable imagination - old actors never die, etc. As I rocked and cuddled and closed my eyes, I realized there were no cars, no loud motorcycles, no drunken Leonardo DiCaprio wannabes outside my window (a la 4:30 this a.m.) screaming "Woo-hoo, happyF-in' New Year" (I'm not sure if he realized that New Year's is in the winter). Instead, for just a few minutes, there was simply the sound of the fireworks. Which, with very little effort, quickly became the sound of revolution.

I could see myself in an old Colonial home, rocking chair by the window, babe on my lap (although back then it probably would have been my grandchild, or my last child of fifteen), my dress stained and smelly from working all day and my hair hiding under one of those cute little dust caps they all wore; probably not because it kept their hair clean, but because it kept everyone from knowing how incredibly lazy they had been that day and napped instead of brushing one's locks. I could envision myself listening to the sound of cannons from shore and return fire, perhaps from ships or more distant British Artillary. It wasn't that much of a leap to imagine the smaller musket fire and the sound of thickly soled feet running down Chapel Street in an effort to defend the buildings and families of the town. Perhaps I would have been sneaking peeks from between the window shutters, afraid of cannon or musket balls launching themselves through. Maybe I would hold my breath and pray that the British army would see the black chimney my husband had painted as a show of support for King George and our homeland. Or perhaps I would have been a tad less affluent and was listening to determine the pitch of the battle, waiting for my husband or father or brother - town militia - to walk through the front door with the news that it was all over and we had chased the British to the next town. That we escaped death or the burning of our fields and buildings yet one more time.

I could easily look at my beautiful, sleeping baby boy and wish - Torrey or Guerilla - that his future hold promise, ambition and fulfillment and that he would reap whatever he sowed. I would pray for him, just as I did tonight, that he know great love, God and patriotism. I would whisper to him that he should live life with little regret and never sell out his dreams - that he be true to himself and his upbringing.

Luckily, I put my son down in his crib to sleep and then headed back to the present and my refrigerator with the Cherry Garcia ice cream in the perfectly working freezer.