Fireworks!

 

I have come to hate the Fourth of July.  Not because of the current administration and some of the changes we have seen, but because of fireworks.

When I was little, fireworks were a communal event. On the Third of July, we gathered around the Kingston Green to watch the bonfire—a tall pile of railroad ties with a car perched on top. People bet on which way the car would fall. As a toddler, I was terrified by the sight of the flames reflected in the houses surrounding the Green; when I grew older, I loved running around exploring the carnival, playing games and riding the Tilt-a-Whirl while my parents watched the blaze and chatted with relatives. Real independence at seven years old!

The fireworks happened the next night (two late nights in a row!) either in Kingston or in Hampstead. Mothers sprayed us down with Off to keep off mosquitoes, we found sweatshirts and blankets, and gathered in the local field to watch the display. Beforehand, we cruised around, seeing classmates and hiding on each other while parents stayed is the designated spots. As it grew darker, we settled down. Fireworks exploded overhead and each was greeted by a gasp or sigh of awe. Ooooo, aahhhh….ooooo…..The show went on for about half an hour, one shot at a time. Sometimes, there was a glitch in the system and we had to wait, patiently, until it was resolved.  Sometimes, the sounds freaked out a younger sibling or cousin and we’d cap our hands over their ears. Dogs stayed home, peaceful in the house or yard.  We cheered at the end, then gathered up sleepy kids, and headed for the car and the traffic jam at the gate. My mother and aunt sang popular songs—Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head or The Green Berets—while we waited, dozing, in a pile in the back of the station wagon.

We still have local fireworks and the traffic jam afterwards, but no one coos over the show; many people are watching through their phones. But that’s all still good. What I hate is the hours and hours of illegal booms that shake my house until three in the morning. It starts at nine, at dusk, and goes, peaking around eleven, until the wee hours. Just when we have all nodded off, another boom shakes the windows.  And again. And again. And again. We have lost the communal ritual and need to replace it with individual actions. And, right now, we need the communal rituals more than we ever have.