To me, the booming explosions sound like death gongs. Bright tendrils of light fade symbolically as they fall from the sky and then they are gone. The scent of backyard barbecues reminds me of Druid sacrifices to mark the end of the growing season. Cars and SUVs that jam highways are like animals fleeing the fields after a whiff of doom.

Happy Fourth of July. Your summer, attained only after a half-year battle with the vicious winter beast, is at its tipping point.

For a guy who loves the warm seasons the way mothers love an only child, I sure despise this holiday. And I hate to be the guy announcing that the chicken is bad when you have a belly full of drumsticks, but have you noticed? Have you noticed the purple rim around the horizon retreating earlier than it did last week? And much earlier than it did two weeks before that?

The pressure of the Fourth is immense. For the first half of the season, you’ve done nothing but mow the lawn, put plants in the ground, chase ducks out of your yard after the third weekend of rain.

You’ve been consoling yourself that you’ll get to those camping trips, those baseball games, those long days on the Old Orchard pier because you have a whole summer left to do it.

Guess what, Pollyanna? The boys of summer are going into their mid-season yawns and the All Star game is upon us. The gas pumps you’ve avoided to this point have only grown more loathsome with time and now that trip to Six Flags will cost you twice as much. The tents still packed in the basement have that much more mildew on them because you haven’t hauled them up into the light yet.

Summer is like a baby you expect to be with you forever. Then in an eye blink he is walking and talking and growing and then he is gone. We announce his impending departure with fireworks and face painting, watermelon and drunken dance, a lot like those wistful Druids who knew more than anyone what the death of summer meant.

Historians will tell you that fireworks are meant to serve as representations of the bombs and canon fire that fueled our independence. To me, they are more like thunderous alarm clocks, shaking us out of our fugues and reminding us that this warmth we craved won’t be here for long. Our seasonal fun quotas have not nearly been filled, and the only way to catch up with them is to act now or resign yourself to another squandered summer. You only get a handful, you know.

Someone reminded me that the Fourth is this week and my first thought was not exaltation. It was a cerebral inventory in which few check marks appeared. Not one diving stab at shortstop to close out an inning in the pickup baseball game. Not one mighty ocean wave breaking over my head and thrashing me around like a chew toy in a dog’s mouth. Not one night in a tent, not one nude plunge into an anonymous lake.

Quit covering your eyes, prude. The Druids did it all the time.

If I had my way, the Fourth of July would not be celebrated until mid-September, in spite of the misnomer it would present. By then if you haven’t completed that to-do list, you’d have no choice but to do it all in one frantic weekend.

Sprint to the pickup baseball game, hammer a run-scoring double and then keep on running to the beach. Lay there long enough to color that glowing white skin of yours and then race off to ride the Terminator at Old Orchard Beach. Dive into a kayak and paddle at 80 mph across Sebago Lake before crawling onto land like the planet’s first terrestrial creature looking for a mate. Have a three-minute summertime romance (unless you’re married, in which case make it six) and then off to build a campfire in record time. Tell the kids a scary story that lasts no more than one minute and then you’re off for that naked plunge into the lake. Watch out for bloodsuckers.

Or maybe it’s better that we have window rattling explosions that light up the sky at summer’s half-time. Those blazing pinks, purples and yellows should spell out what they really mean: “Get to it, fool. Before you know it, darkness will be on the land again and all that will be left to do is fill the oil tank and shovel the yard.”

It’s no wonder we drink so much up here in Canada’s underbelly.

I don’t mean to be the gloomy one at the party but someone has to remind you lay-abouts that this glorious six pack is half gone. Get going now or your kids will hate you, the wife will think you’re a bore and you will be reminded of these shortcomings with each fallen leaf of autumn.

I have spoken. Enjoy your Fourth and have a memorable summer. I leave you with just this one word of warning.

I think the chicken might be bad.