Sittin' on the back porch in the mountains of Tennessee...

In a small Tennessee town of about 1100 people, there's a grand firework festival that attracts multitudes of people (hillbillies) from miles away. They pile into their big ol' trucks and come and down for the day (maybe two) to the grand Fireman's Fourth for some fried Southern food, cold drinks, and time to spend with old friends and new (although we might have been the only new faces there... it is a small town), there they hear banjo-pickin' and country-singin'. (This was not a festival with a bunch of overall-wearing country folks, smelly rides, and loud, ear-piercing "music," mind you. Oh no. Not in the least.)

We walked around a bit and rode some magical rides (magical in the sense that they did not just fall apart as soon as even the smallest of children eagerly stepped onto the rickety, worn, metal platform held together by a few measly nails). In all honesty, I only watched as Kelley, Jonathan, and Daddy risked their lives on these so called "rides," were thrown and tossed around on the Scrambler and its lovely cousin, the Twister. (Don't they just sound scrumptious?) Afterward, we walked through the downtown (which was not a long walk in the least), and reached the suburbs. We strolled along the cool, shady street in the warm, late afternoon to an old family friend's home, waving to friendly passers-by on the way. We came to a large, white, Southern-esque house, with a beautiful side-paneled, wrap-around porch, complete with porch swings, rocking chairs, welcome rugs, and all. We drank ice cold lemonade while we sat on the back porch which overlooked a large hayfield. We rode the monorail (a glorified zipline), talked, laughed, held the family pet... not a dog, no, not even a cat, but an ugly, big, black snake (okay, everyone else held the pet snake while I acted sensibly and sat across the table), we shared stories, and watched dazzling fireworks in the cool of the evening. All from the back porch.