Ya gotta love a paid day off from work when it isn’t snowing. In Wyoming, that gives us one or two national holidays to play with. Fourth of July and maybe Labor Day. As I recall Memorial Day, it was very, very cold and crunchy white underfoot. Nobody spent time outdoors grilling tube steaks in a foot of snow.

Tomorrow ought to be sunny and warm. Even with no plans but to BBQ, it’ll be a blast. And I mean that literally. People shoot off all kinds of fireworks up in the mountains. The City of Sheridan prohibits “the storage, use or handling of fireworks.” Outside the city limits, however, you’re free to blow your damn fingers off every day of the week.

That’s how you can tell us mountain folk, in fact: we’re the ones who look like we’re ex-bomb squad.

It’s still weird to me to spend Independence Day somewhere other than a beach. I’ve been away from Long Island for half my life, yet I still expect to spend the holiday frying my pale skin to a pretty, blister pink and the evening watching a Grucci fireworks show simulcast on WBLI.

Since there’s no getting around the landlocked-and-how aspect of Wyoming living, I decided to alleviate the Grucci longing this year by watching my veterinarian launch a few Roman candles in his own backyard. Even better, I might get to watch him sew a few finger nubs back on.

That’s how we get down in the Big Horns. We do for ourselves.

And isn’t that the meaning of independence?