Fireworks are awful – in the true sense of the word. When a darkened sky is instantaneously filled with exploding light, when brilliant holes in the heavens suddenly expand to arc across the entire celestial realm, when the ground shakes beneath my feet, when the smell of gunpowder with its unique notes of sulfur and saltpeter invade my nostrils – it is then that I become completely filled with awe. Awe-filled, awful, awesome. I am deeply moved, physically and emotionally, whenever I behold that Chinese-created wonder above and around me. Yes, I love fireworks. I’ve had the joy of experiencing them in many places. I long to feel them once again, someday, some place.
My first recollections of the wonder of fireworks are those accompanying displays at Waddell Park in Niles, when I was very young. They may be one of the few events to which my mother and father took me. We may have gone for an extended-family picnic on the Fourth of July. We did that on very rare occasions. In the evening, when the ground quaked beneath me, my heart pounded with the same rhythm. Air pollution did not yet exist and people could stumble through the smoke rolling through the park after the grand finale, when all of the bombs were exploded in one burst of all-consuming sound and fury.
My next memory of a worthwhile pyrotechnical display is related to Schoellkopf Field at Cornell University where, on the evening of Independence Day, all of Ithaca seemed to assemble. The crescent stands on the side of the field were filled with more than students who had remained during the summer. The scaffolds, visible in the twilight on the thirty-yard lines of the stadium, disappeared as golden outlines of wooden tanks erupted into view. They battled one another with red-rocket bombardment, until one fizzled out, signifying defeat. Bets could be taken whether the left- or the right-side would win the war that particular year. Of course, there were also ground towers topped off with wheels revolving, both horizontally and vertically, and shooting off golden streaks of light, accompanied with hissing sounds to make the falling fire even more dramatic. However, their sounds were modest in comparison with the screams of rockets propelled high into the air where they burst not only into radiant plumes of golden chrysanthemums but also galaxies of red, green and blue suns. The viewers oohed and aahed while wondering if the expanding cloud of light would actually touch them before it dissolved into falling ash.
The town of Hanover, New Hampshire offered its particular version of colonial fireworks as instructed by John Adams so many years ago. The long-term residents, dressed in eighteenth century clothing, paraded the Commons on Independence Day, itself. The only problem experienced with the evening lights and sounds belonged to Phoebe, our newly acquired canine addition to the family. July 4th was her first day with us. She never could bear the booms of the night (nor thunder of any storms) and cowered away, even with as much comfort as our daughter, Deb, could offer her.
Corvallis, Oregon, on the other hand, in lieu of parades and evening displays for the Fourth of July, recalls sparklers. Deb loved to wave them; Ken was held at a respectful distance, away from their circular movements.
Sparklers followed us to Maryland, and later to Amherst. However, a major memory for this period comes from the all-inclusive, all-consuming blaze of fireworks on the Mall in downtown Washington, D.C. There may have been ground displays, but my memory has excluded them. The focus for this national holiday was the sight of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial bathed in fiery red, white and blue streamers, spirals and swirls of light. Once again, the ground shook with the thunderous results of the “rockets’ red glare, bursting in air” – even if it was not over a harbor in Baltimore.
It is difficult for me to decide, however, if the glory of the Fourth of July celebration is more memorable as seen over the Mall in Washington, D.C. or the harbor in Boston. We had the marvelous opportunity, one year, to watch from a boat on the harbor, as the cosmic lights overhead were accompanied by the sound of the 1812 Overture echoing from a nearby radio. We listened to the canons of the Boston Pops, synchronized with the flashes of glory rising up from Boston Common. We tried to guess if the next sighting would explode in one massive dandelion-flower or become a series of simultaneous spirals screaming their way to self-destruction. It did not really matter what color would be spectrumed toward us; they were all marvelous to behold.
Seeing live fireworks without the shudder of the earth is not quite the same adventure as being on land and having a bodily experience of what is being viewed. Although I enjoyed the experience in Boston Harbor, it differed significantly from watching fireworks on a larger, people-packed boat on Sandusky Bay. We happened to be in Ohio one Fourth of July and, instead of driving out to Cedar Point to be part of its celebration, Karen, her sister, Tami, and I viewed the midwestern night sky from the deck of a ferryboat cruising the bay. Although the displays from Sandusky, Cedar Point and Put-In-Bay were very acceptable to view, the experience was incomplete, since it lacked the trembling earth beneath me and the odor of cordite around me. Unlike many viewers, I did escape the confines of the ferryboat cabins to stand on the top deck, where the ground-based lightning flashes appeared long before their rumbles were heard across the water.
We had another kind of experience viewing fireworks while traveling outside of the United States. When we were in Brugge, Belgium, the town was holding a festival for a local event. Having visited the booths and rides around the square during the day, we were able to see the aerial display that evening from our hotel. The cobblestone street was repeatedly lit by flashes which might have been reminiscent of bombardment during a much earlier time in Belgian history. Nevertheless, the colors, sounds and smells matched those of any small town in the States.
Usually, fireworks are experienced along with a warm night in July. However, there was one display I viewed while freezing under a flash-filled sky even though I wore layers of hooded sweatshirts under a heavy jacket. This was the December when Karen and I went to see the Grand Illuminations, a display initiating the Christmas Season in Colonial Williamsburg. We, and a thousand admiring guests, stomped our feet and proclaimed approval as the low-level rockets exploded over the Governor’s Mansion. Hot chocolate and mulled cider made the adventure even more heartwarming, as we watched the glare above us and listened to the drums and fifes of young marchers passing by. The sky was constantly blanketed with the silver and magenta lights of rockets fired in rapid repetition for almost a half hour of overhead bombardment. In Colonial Williamsburg, the holiday season truly begins with a bang.
Our exposure to live fireworks for the Fourth of July in Texas has been limited. In our early years we made short, but traffic-filled, trips to locations near Tomball College, a center for the display. On another occasion, before the 249-highway was complete, we parked on the overpass near the Houston Racetrack to see, hear and smell the fireworks shot off from its track. To compensate for a lack of attendance at local displays, our two boys tossed their own firecrackers in the street in front of our house, as Karen and I watched from the balcony of our French-colonial home in Spring. When we lived in Cypress, the Old Tin Hall, a dancehall built long ago in this area, presented local aerial fireworks visible from our front yard. Probably due to lethargy and a dislike of grid-locked traffic, we have driven downtown only once in four decades to be part of what some Houstonians never miss. We have, from time-to-time, watched TV to see the rockets bursting above the bayous, but the result is not the same as being an active participant. Nevertheless, we remain content to watch, once again, the movie version of the musical 1776 and appreciate the history of why we celebrate the Fourth of July with fireworks.
Over the years, I have presented homilies at Christ the Good Shepherd in which I have spoken of the awe of the Holy Spirit in terms of the awe of a great fireworks display. For me, such a display is suggestive of the glory of God, the awesomeness of the Holy Spirit. I may never again experience the sights, sounds, and smells of an actual fireworks display, but I do long for the illumination, trumpet blasts, and flagrance of the essence of all fireworks to come.