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"Yay! We are free from an apathetic imperial ruler! We can drink tea
without paying taxes on it! Let’s blow something up!" After a
while, they probably ran out of old barns to blow up. They may have
realized, eventually, the stupidity of destroying things they might
need someday, so they decided to launch bombs into the air, just to
hear a satisfying racket.
In time, somebody would say that bombs weren’t pretty enough to
celebrate our freedom. Enter, a new job category: pyrotechnic
engineer.
If blowing things up was the only qualification for pyrotechnic
engineer, my 8-year-old would be the world’s best.
Unfortunately, you have to know how to do it carefully, and we
don’t have any old barns on which he can practice.
Last year, we went to a fireworks display about an hour’s drive
from where we live. It was a beautiful night to watch explosions and
contemplate our good fortune. I’ll bet England never has fireworks
or parades on the Fourth of July. Just think how empty the Fourth of
July would feel if we didn’t win that war!
We found a nice patch of roadside where we spread our blanket. My
kids brought books and hand-held video games, because what if the
fireworks didn’t start right away and they were forced to talk to
each other?
No fear, though, the explosions started right on time. We oohed
and aahed as a kaleidoscope of colors blistered the night sky.
We squealed and covered our ears when the loud, obnoxious booms
echoed. They were, no doubt, presented as sort of retro-rockets, if
you will. Anyone in the crowd who was over 200 years old would’ve
felt their cockles being warmed to hear such a familiar
old-fashioned detonation. No graphics, no old barns, just sound.
Of course, on the long ride to the fireworks show we cautioned
our children about the dangers of playing with fireworks.
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Everyone has a grisly story to tell about someone who got hurt or
killed on the Fourth of July.
Ours was about a fireman who was helping with a fireworks display
when one went off prematurely. He was paralyzed by a stray piece of
shrapnel that severed his spine.
Duly warned, my children nodded solemnly when I asked them to
promise never to play with fireworks. None of them wanted to be
paralyzed.
I’m still not sure what happened -- perhaps a sudden shift in the
wind -- but just before the grand finale, we started feeling pieces
of ash falling from the sky. Some were still lit.
Then at the end, when the fireworks were being launched
rapid-fire, we thought we were in a Revolutionary War re-enactment.
We saw "the rocket’s red glare," heard "the bombs bursting in
air," and it "gave proof through the night that" ... we needed to
grab our children and run!
Burning ash was suddenly falling all around us!
My son yelled, "Incoming! Cover your spines!"
Clearly, he had heeded our warnings.
We ran for the car, which was also within the falling ash zone.
People were running all around and yelling for their kids. In the
words of Jeff Foxworthy, "It was pande-lerium!"
Talk about experiential learning! We were at the front lines of
the Revolutionary War that night! Someone wearing a red coat
could’ve easily been mistaken for the enemy and got themselves
bayoneted with a marshmallow roasting stick!
This year, I think we can make do without all that excitement.
Perhaps we’ll simply stay home and watch the neighbors shoot bottle
rockets off their driveway.
[By LAURA SNYDER]
Laura Snyder is a nationally syndicated columnist,
author and speaker. You can reach her at
lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
or visit www.lauraonlife.com
for more info. |
