The 4th of July--the greatest anthropological holiday of the year.

As primitive man sought fire; evolved man seeks fireworks.

Under the cover of darkness grunting fiercely, a group of prehistoric pyromaniacs (who possessed functioning cerebellums on July 3rd) are gathered around some unlabeled cylinder trying to locate the fuse. Their contraband has been absconded from "this buddy of mine who gets all the confiscated illegal fireworks," as every clan seems to have one of these elusive characters amongst them. The Zippo they bring serves not only the incendiary device, but also as the inadequate torch further rendering the process more insidious and archaic.

Next, there is a sudden warning cry to the younger members to seek shelter followed by some inaudible curses. The remaining elders will only back-up about 12 inches from certain death as the farther the retreat denotes the lesser amount of raw testosterone pumping through his veins. The mysterious orb stutters, then spurts out a plume of fire and explosives that sets off every car alarm and dog bark in the neighborhood.

There are deceiving pauses in between detonations, which confuses, but does not deter the males from venturing closer to inspect the smoldering embers which seem to explode randomly. It continues to emit a toxic green smoke, which seems to glow brighter than the actual sparks while smelling similarly to the Deviled eggs that have been left out on the picnic table for the past 12 hours in the July heat.

They seem to be pleased at this, and the various injuries they have suffered as they compare wounds. The ritual concludes with self-congratulatory back slaps, another draw on the grog, and a scorched T-rex crater in the lawn.

Meanwhile, back in the cave, the women are in the inside huddled in the corner with the children who are trying desperately to see, as we are cursing a little more audibly. We are weaving ancient horror stories of lost digits while trying to tempt the cubs on the virtues of the lame sparklers. We would be quite content to drag our families to pterodactyl-sized mosquito fields to watch public displays of fireworks from the safety of a picnic blanket; but our instincts warn of futility when it comes to any protest of this annual rite of lunacy.

So, we quiet the babies after each mushroom cloud and feed the dog Xanax kibble. We would be worried of a visit from the tribal authorities if not for every other hut in the neighborhood is participating in this same misguided male courtship ritual.

When the cavemen return from their exploits, they’re monosyllabic language remains as they utter, "Dude!" They no longer resemble Neanderthals, however, as all of their body hair has been singed off from a rogue Roman candle. They are proud of their fire-bending skills, and throw another wild hot dog onto the spit. They treat us to tales of their hunt; the many moons over many borders to "Crazy Larry’s" they traveled to gather the cherry bombs and bottle rockets for the Independence Day Feast.

The women’s resulting breathlessness is not a sign that we are impressed by the garish display, it is simply because we’ve been holding it that long.

As a reluctant cavewoman every 4th of July and spending much of my adult life standing nervous sentry at the sliding glass door with tourniquets and burn cream offering prayers and sacrifices to the firecracker gods; I am certain that when archaeologists dig up our bones centuries from now, they will ponder at the damaged ear canals and charred fingers of the male species of this generation.

They will have to conclude that when it comes to man and his quest for fire, little has changed since the dawn of time: it’s still the size of his wick that matters.

Have a safe and happy Independence Day.

©2008 Tracey Henry