Well.
July 4th, 2002
Well.
Two Coronas, two tasty chicken fajitas, and my Fourth of July is just
about over. I can hear vague rumblings through my apartment walls, but
I live too low in the valley to be able to see anything from my house.
I learned last year’s lesson well: Don’t try to drive anywhere to see
the fireworks — at least, don’t try driving to the fireworks
themselves.
I bet our old apartment, way up the hill (Hillsdale and Highway 92), had
a great view.
Erin (still in Houston) tells me that they drove the Santa Fe out to
the Randall’s parking lot behind her parents’ house, opened up the
tailgate, and watched from there.