Magicians and Fireworks

The Fourth of July always makes me nostalgic and slightly homesick. In my mind, it represents child-like freedom. It was a day not like any other, where my family and I managed to do something unworldly.

Dad, usually the night before, brought home a massive package of fireworks. Its arrival prompted my older sister, three younger brothers and I to fight over whom would light the totally awesome “tank” that was always included in the package. Mom and dad appeased us, listening to our arguments, eventually concluding that dad would do the honors. It was, after all, the most fair.

Typically, July 4^th is an unbearably hot and humid day in Florida, but that didn’t stop us from spending it outdoors—this felt like home. My parents organized a family cookout giving each of us a contributing task like folding napkins or setting out plates. Dad taught my brothers how to light up the grill while my sister, mom and I sliced-and-baked Pillsbury cookies bearing an image of Old Glory. We’d prepare salad, baked beans and open bags of chips while the guys grilled hamburgers, hot-dogs and veggie burgers.

Later that evening, after a traditional viewing of The Sandlot, my dad would go out to the front yard, while my siblings and I waited eagerly inside. Mom — bless her heart — did her very best to harness our excitement. I recall chasing after my brothers in the house, still arguing over that little “tank.”

When dad was ready, we’d dart out the door and onto the driveway. He was our hero. Dad was the mastermind of the fireworks show that would dominate all others simply because it was ours. There were two rules; dad would help us light each firework and we would only ignite one at a time. This was good; it meant that we’d get to illuminate the sky for a longer time period.

Quite ceremoniously, dad handed us each two sparklers. He’d explain that if the flames got too close to our hands, we were to put them out in this water filled bucket. “No hospitals tonight,” was his closing statement.

We were enchanted. Hearts pumping, sweaty faced and frizzled haired, we waited for dad to hand us two sparklers, one for each hand. When my clammy palms accepted both, I held them tightly, feeling extremely responsible.

Once lit, there was nothing more fascinating than signing our names in the sky, watching as the faint imprint of each letter permeated and dazzled briefly in the air. I remember my youngest brother, Jacob, running around the yard, weaving in between the trees with his arms extended while clutching his sparklers for dear life. Julie, the oldest of our bunch, was always so dignified, eloquently holding hers as she regally stood in place. I did a dance, of sorts, swinging my arms while watching the flickers swirl and glitter in the darkness. Occasionally, I’d run after my two other brothers – Jeffrey and Jonathan – trying to exceed their pace as they played tag in the front yard.

The closing firework was democratically chosen. We once had a flower shaped pod, which when alight, burst into various hues. I also recall a particularly promising rocket shaped one. My dad anchored it into the ground, and as it shot off, it flared into a sunburst, only a few feet in the air.

When it was over, we picked up the remains, and trudged back inside.  The adrenaline made it hard to fall asleep, but eventually, we’d pass out in the living room after turning on The Mighty Ducks or some other equally epic film.

For us, the Fourth of July was more than just a night to eat delicious food and stay up late. Our dad was the magician and we were his assistants; on that summer evening, we – along with our superhero – made magic.

 

 

 

 

 

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