PB Rippey Writes

Recently we drove from Valencia (mountains) to Ventura (ocean!!!) on the 126 Hwy, which took us through good old Fillmore (fields, strip malls/classic train depot…). My husband and I were stunned by the number of popup fireworks booths Fillmore displayed by the highway. At least a dozen? Their canopies emblazoned in red script promising explosions.

Fillmore is in Ventura County and unlike Los Angeles County has NOT banned the sale of fireworks, despite the 1 gigantic fire hazard spreading from Valencia to Fillmore to Santa Paula to the coast. Citrus orchards, but also dry fields. Dry mountains. Tumbleweeds.

Because of Ventura County’s short-sightedness, Fillmore is a fireworks purchasing hub for Los Angeles County and beyond–certainly for those in my little Valencian neighborhood intent on 4th of July mischief.

This 4th of July falls in the middle of an ongoing heatwave (but when doesn’t it). As we lounged on one of our favorite beaches, my husband and I went over our 4th list: veggie hot dogs, lemonade, frozen watermelon chunks, de-crimped garden hoses and backup hoses, fire dept/sheriff on speed dial.

Check.

Last year, partying neighbors a few doors down set off a Roman candle in the street around 11pm. The hissing/spitting candle was a couple of stories tall and so wide an approaching car had to stop and wait for it to die before proceeding safely along the street. Most of my other neighbors barged out of their houses shouting, WTH. When I yelled: Okay, no more! at the offending neighbors (new neighbors) breaking the law, the reply was: I don’t like your tone!

Happy safe 4th of July.

Yours in an abundant supply of garden hoses and yours in lovely beaches that say shhhhh,

PB