Watching Fireworks

Watching Fireworks

 

Marjorie and I, like most Americans, spent last evening watching fireworks at our favorite venue. Just as we have done for several years, we followed our practice of parking our ample backsides in lawn chairs in the parking lot of a nursing home that sits on a hill close to the park where the fireworks are lit. We arrive early. We know that it is almost time for the show when the door to the nursing home opens and the lady with the hot dogs and popcorn comes out pushing her cart. Things happen fast after that; another blue-coated aide comes out the door pushing the first of many wheel chairs and soon a line-up of nursing home patients are sitting in front of us at the head of the parking lot, patiently waiting for their dogs, popcorn and ice water. That includes us. We generally sit quietly until most of the residents get their fill before we slink up to the line with our hands out.

Last night was different. I could tell things weren’t the same when the cart-pushing lady came out the side door. Then, when the residents began to slowly emerge, other hints of a different sort became evident. More about that in a moment.

Watching fireworks has long been a sensuous delight for me. I find the lights and the sounds and colors and shapes of the exploding mini-bombs endlessly fascinating. Last night was no exception. It seems as though our local fireworks are bigger and better each year and I found myself oooohing and aaahing after a few moments. The 36 minute show began promptly at 10:15 PM, just as the long shadows from the distant trees disappeared into total darkness, save the silvery moon that cast a hazy image of the old folks lined up before us.

I don’t know who designed and developed the fireworks that I watched, but whoever it was did a bang-up job. The glowing embers above our heads offered all the colors of a rainbow in moving shapes that appeared as if by magic, one after another, in split second intervals. Blue circles enveloped red circles that instantly were transformed to green stars. Balls of color erupted across the sky. The darkness disappeared as the explosions lit up the sky for an instant, then slowly faded. The soft poof that announced the firing of another mortar was often accompanied by my personal favorite; an explosion of light in the shape of cascading willow tree branches followed by a sharp KABOOM that announced the end of that mortar’s show in preparation for another, even more spectacular missile yet to come.

I was sufficiently enthused by the display that I decided to take pictures to show you the incredible display, but my telephone/camera was fooled a solitary parking lot lamp. It was either that or the limited skills of the photographer. Over the course of the show, I must have taken 50 pictures, virtually all showing a black sky. Nothing else. Here are two that give a hint of the show.

 

The show was such a treat that I found myself transported back in time to my childhood when we all gathered at the 4H park for the annual 4^th of July celebration in our small town. Fireworks were the capstone of a busy afternoon at the park where all manner of fun and games were organized for adults and children. I remember the games for young boys: There was the competition to catch the greased pig that was turned loose to run about in a mud-filled, fenced enclosure. The prize for the youngster who corralled the pig in the allotted time was a shiny new quarter. An even bigger prize awaited the boy that could shinny up a greased wood pole that was planted firmly in the ground with a crisp one dollar bill tied to the top. Boys always took off their shirts for both these tests of masculinity.

Following the afternoon games, the beginning of the fireworks show was announced by what seemed to my 10-year old ears as the biggest KABOOM in recorded history. It was the signal for families to spread their blankets on the grassy field behind the firemen’s line who had the all-important job of managing the fireworks. As darkness fell, you knew the fun was about to begin when a barely visible fireman in his long rubber boots moved about with a lighted flare, bending over tubes that projected from the earth. We always sat as close as we dared. Sometimes the embers from the exploding fireworks slowly fluttered down to earth as their lights winked out just before our heads. Despite the pleas of parents, children had to jump up and run toward the embers with the fondest wish of finding a glowing piece of detritus.

In hindsight, the shows I watched in the 1950’s were pretty mild affairs. There must have been no more than several dozen mortars shot off during a 30-minute show, there being a brief interval between each shot as the fireman found the correct tube, lit the fuse and then retreated several steps as he plugged his ears. The waiting didn’t matter. The interval allowed us to whisper our oooh’s and aaah’s and breathlessly speculate on the next shot.

So, how was this show different? First of all, there was no popcorn. Also, when the lady with the hot dog cart pushed open the door, a man in a wheelchair came rushing out. His was the motorized sort and he barreled out the door and then came to my spot at the edge of the parking lot. I was surprised. We chatted for a moment while he explained he was waiting for this grandchildren that he expected any moment. He was right. In a moment three little waifs showed up.

“All right,” he said, “climb aboard.”

With that, the three little ones each found a perch on his wheelchair and he drove off, all four of them sporting big smiles. It was my best picture of the evening.