I have always been a sucker for holidays, for traditions, for rituals.

Consequently, I have always been a whiny baby when traditions get spoiled. And not just because it took me longer than usual to develop coping skills: usually, I would decide something was a tradition without letting anyone else in on the secret and then leave them to deal with my seemingly irrational antics over a holiday weekend.

One such example: I was a kid, so I loved fireworks. I grew up in one of those states where fireworks were so illegal, I’ve actually only held a sparkler on one occasion (I got scared and threw it on the ground) – so pyrotechnics were quite the thrill. We went a few times to the city fairgrounds and sat in stadium bleacher seats and watch, but one year we went to some crazy fireworks show that involved a long-ish drive, a shuttle bus to a large clearing, some kind of emcee with what I recall to be a religious message, and scads and scads of people.

It was basically my first rock concert. Of course I thought we’d go every year.

365 days later, I sulked in my backyard in the dark, angry and offended that my parents didn’t understand my deep, cyclical need to watch some exploding gunpowder in Lambertville, PA. Much to my surprise, my neighbors ended up setting off some illegal something-or-others later on, but where was the drama? The roadtrip? The throng of people?

Yes, I was an incorrigible child. Likely an incorrigible adult as well.

But luckily enough, I have moved to the fireworks capital of the country.

After two years of watching the show from the waterfront, I have a new understanding for my parents’ choice to Just Stay Home. But lucky enough for me, Boston has a tradition of 4th of July celebration – I will be attending not one but two parties today, one of which involves a rooftop view of the show.

That’s more than enough to please me.

Happy fourth, everyone!