I’ve spent the past two Fourths of July in Bozeman, Montana visiting my dear friend, Marcie. Why would I leave all this to go to a small podunk town in the middle of nowhere? Well, if you haven’t experienced the Fourth of July in Montana, you have to. Immediately. Go book your trip for next year NOW (and remember to bring all parts of your camera so you have more than a post to show for it).
I live in Colorado where the summers are filled with forest fires and parents don’t want their children blowing body parts to smithereens. Fireworks are all but banned here. As a matter of fact, until two years ago I had never lit anything more “dangerous” than sparklers. I was terrified of fireworks. If I were to light one, at minimum I’d blow my hand off- no question about it.
My friend Marcie’s boys were 9 and 14. Not only do they light fireworks, they dissect them and rebuild them into little boxes. They pile bees, bloomers, fountains, sunflowers, tanks, firecrackers and infinite variants within, extending a fuse out of the box. They weren’t concerned that gunpowder was coating their skin- a quick accelerant which would permanently disfigure their beautiful faces, at minimum.
I watched in horror from behind Mike’s truck as one of the boys lit the first box and ran quickly away. Pop pop pop, various colors of smoke- then the box went up in flames and fireworks detonated everywhere in rapid succession. Bees and other spinning/flying ammunition flew up in the air, bursting into an awesome cascade of color. Nobody lost any fingers. There were no burns, no disfigured faces. It was absolutely exhilarating. Soon, I was beside the boys, creating my very own boxes of explosive goodness and giggling like a psychotic pyromaniac.
I lit the first one, eyes clenched shut and face turned away. As the fuse ignited, I ran for the truck, shielding myself just in case. Whistles, flames and pure pandemonium of brilliant light fulminated everywhere. The entire string of firecrackers popped in machine gun fire while bees and ground bloomers flew, spinning dizzying circles until they screamed off into the sky.
The box erupted in flames and more went off. And when the flames wouldn’t die, the beer-guzzler in charge of the hose aimed a stream of water at the flaming wreckage from his lawn chair. We were silent for a few seconds-out of respect for the beauty of my pyrotechnic genius, I’m sure.
“Who’s next?” Marcie asked.
You don’t have to ask me twice. I ran out to the street with my second box, terrified that I would definitely blow my hand off this time. There are only so many times you can tempt fate before it blew your hand off, and I was excited by this risk.
In the morning, the street looked like a battle raged through the night before. The cardboard carcasses of at least $500 worth of fireworks littered the streets and the asphalt was charred a darker shade of black. And that was only the 3rd of July. There would be 2 more nights of this.
1 Comment
August 16, 2008 at 5:58 am
We spent New Years in the Netherlands a few years ago. The Dutch as well as other Europeans, light their fireworks on New Years Eve. We were staying in our friend’s sister’s apartment on a small enclosed street. It looked like a war zone, there were no laws about the size of the fireworks and these people had EVERYTHING! It was truly terrifying and exciting.