I have always loved fireworks. As a young child, I would save my money that my grandpa gave me and my money from mowing lawns and go down to the Collins Fireworks stand by Safeway on the westside of Colorado Springs. It was back between Howard's Pit Bar-B-Que and the back parking lot of Safeway. Standing on the wooden boardwalk peeking over the counter, telling the person what you wanted as they added it up on their adding machine. That was my proverbial candy store.
We would go up to my aunt and uncle's to start out with burgers and hotdogs. We did our best throughout the day not to get caught sneaking a 'fourth of July brownie' off the top of the fridge.
Throughout the day the anticipation would build with children yelling "they're starting, they're starting!" every time the fire department would send up a 'boomer.' "They're not starting, its three o'clock in the afternoon, go do some smoke bombs."
Every once in a while my uncles plectron would let go a screech to call anyone that was a available to help put out a yard fire or treat someone that had burned themselves.
The wailing of the fire trucks would echo through the canyon as they navigated the winding roads somewhere below us. Not being able to fit the big trucks down the dead end street, we would usually just see one of the volunteers walking up the street carrying a boot to hold the donations that would pay for next years display.
As soon as dusk started to fall, we would go down in the street to begin to burn off our booty. Adult supervision usually consisted of an adult leaning against the fence, periodically yelling down from the yard "If that thing hits my car, there's going to be hell to pay!" "Stop lighting the spinners there, they're going under the cars!" "I think I see a cop coming up Floral Path."
Up in the yard was rarely better. I think it was my younger sister that set my aunt's rosebush on fire. The blue scar left when my older sister lit a smoke bomb on a big decorative rock of my uncles reminded us for years to be careful where we lit them.
At precisely oh-dark-thirty someone would call out that the waterfall had been lit and everyone would make their way to the front yard. "Put me on your shoulders, I can't see!" A row of flares strung across a gulch would shoot white sparks. As they fell they looked like a waterfall. As the stream would die down, a boom would bring your attention to the sky as the show began. After each one, the drunken cheers from across the canyon and down in the park reminded you how small the town really was.
The number of white fireworks in a given year indicated how well the previous years fund raising had gone. If you wanted to see more blues and purples, then you should have shoved a few more bucks in the boot when they came around last year.
(You can see the light from torches on the mountian.)
As the show would go on, you could anticipate each upcoming display by watching the activities on the mountain across the valley. A red dot (some type of flair used to light each display) would break away from the group of five or six and move down the mountain slightly. The flash of the rocket coming out of the mortar would precede the boom. One at a time, every minute or so- a flash, a boom, and a crackle in the sky. When the rocket exploded the mountain below would light up in green, blue, or red.
"I hope those guys aren't drunk this year."
"Last year VanDyke said the sparks were landing on his house."
"there's a fire right down below them."
"There's the parachute, I think its coming over here!"
"They're expecting 75,000 people out at Memorial Park this year."
"Did Terry go up this year?"
"Man its been dry this year."
"Did that one explode on the ground?"
Your disappointment would start to surface as you realized that a red dot broke from the group, but this time it headed up the hill, not down. "There he goes to light the flag." With sparks shooting out of the base the red, white, and blue flares on the hill formed a flag. Again, the town would unite in cheers and yells. As the flag and the cheers would die down, the firemen would bid us farewell by waiving the flares over their heads turning the dots into little red arches.
"See their headlights? That's them coming down."
As we would drive home the smell of sulfur permiated your nostrils from the thick thick smoke hanging over downtown.
It was not until I spent the Fourth of July in California in fifth gradethat I realized just how quaint our display was. The display at Disneyland was awe-inspiring, but made me homesick.
Now, living in the shadow of Royals Stadium, I see firework displays almost weekly through the summer. They go on for 10-15 minutes lighting up the neighborhood, rattling the old double hung windows. I've seen displays at Disneyland. I've taken the incline to the top of Mount Manitou to see all of the displays of Colorado Springs at once. I've spent the Fourth on my boat watching a display launched from a barge on Lake Union in Seattle. I've seen displays in Kansas city set to orchestras over the river. I've spent the Fourth on an airplane watching a multitude of displays from the top set against Denver's city lights below. I've seen fireworks set against a snow covered mountain during Snow Down in Durango. I've spent the Fourth under starlight in the pitch black of the Kansas corn fields.
Each of these unique and beautiful experiences has made me want to have a brownie and watch a flash, a boom, and hear the crackle. Just one at a time.
These beautiful photos were graciously provided by Steve at
www.stevegarufi.com
