My memories of Fourth of July are much different than my children’s will be. I remember being excited at the first sign of the big, black box being set up in the grocery store parking lot. I could not wait to ride my bike to the firework stand with the money I had saved and set aside just for this purpose. I would spend several minutes debating with myself, calculating the cost versus benefit of going with the big cone, or spending my money on two, smaller ones. Invariably, I chose the latter. Not only did it leave enough money for smoke bombs, my very favorite, it meant the street-side show would last longer, even if only because we had to set up and light one more firework.
In the days ahead, my sister and I would take out the fireworks from their packaging, admire the brightly colored paper, sort them and guess which would be the best. It was a bit of a contest to see who would choose the most spectacular one.
When July 4th came, we would spend the day growing snakes, filling the air with colored sulfur and covering the grass with streamers. Then, as night fell, we would pull out the hose to the edge of the street, just in case, and fill a bucket with water for the spent firework casings. My mom would watch from the living room window as we lit the fireworks by ourselves in the middle of the street, and ran back to the curb before (usually) they started sparking. After about 30 minutes, the show would be over, and we would go inside just in time to see the Boston Pops play the 1812 Overture on TV.
It was an exciting break from the everyday routine, one that we looked forward to each year. I can still remember the disbelief when one year, as the holiday approached, there weren’t any black stands going up. I thought my mom was joking when she said that a new law had been passed to ban the sale of fireworks within city limits. I was devastated. Fourth of July would never be the same.
As an adult, it is odd to me that I lamented the loss of do-it-yourself fireworks as much as I did. After all, there is a scar on my leg from a runaway Jumping Jack, and another on my arm from an accident on a beach in Japan, where a hanabi jumped off a rock and under my sleeve before exploding. In that case, I remember walking back to my host family’s home with blood dripping down my arm. And still, somehow, I sort of miss the fireworks. Crazy!
So, it begs the question, knowing what I know now about the dangers of fireworks, if they were available at the corner grocery store, would I let my kids experience this tradition of the past that I loved so much? Let’s just say, I’m glad I don’t have that option. I would like to think I am smarter than that with all the data I have read on fireworks-related fires, severe injuries and deaths, but the temptation would be huge. Plus, there is always the thought that “WE would be much safer than THOSE people.” Not necessarily so, of course.
Many of the fireworks accidents are due to no fault of the user, but are simply flukes or mistakes in manufacturing. Let us not forget that we are talking about lighting compressed gun powder on fire and counting on the fuse being log enough for us to run away. What could possibly go wrong? And something else that bothers me now that I didn’t even think about when I was a kid is all the pollutants emitted. I do remember my eyes and throat often being sore on July 5th, but it seemed a small price to pay for the fun at the time. Not something I care for my children to experience, though.
So what are my kids’ memories of the holiday? As I type this post, I turn to my children; one sits to my right practicing Japanese, and the other is behind me playing Wii Fit. “What do you think of when you think about Fourth of July?” I ask. “Getting together with family,” they both quickly respond. It makes me smile. And I was worried they were somehow missing out.
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