It was a really big piece of ash. It was still glowing a dull orange color when it floated down to a few yards in front of our car. It landed exactly where we had been sitting on a blanket just a few minutes before.
Mom, Dad and I had attended the fireworks show in a nearby town when for some reason — it was probably windy and a little chilly — and we had retreated to our car to watch the rest of the show.
For some reason we had been able to park close to the area roped off for the viewers’ safety.
Oops. The ropes should have been back about 6 feet further.
This is the time of year when we sing about “the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air . . . ” even if we do not do so any other time.