The Bombs Bursting in Air

I remember the excitement of past July 4th celebrations, when we crowded into the beach-front stadium to watch the fireworks bloom and sparkle over the Pacific Ocean shoreline. Uncle, a fire-fighter who often had to work the event, provided the tickets that allowed our little tribe to attend the event. The marching bands, the patriotic speeches, the enthusiasm of the crowd always made July 4 memorable.

July 4, 1985 I sat on the lawn in front of the orchestra shell at the Mall in Washington, DC, barely able to contain my emotions as the huge orchestra filled the seats on the stage, prepped the music on the stands, and tuned their stringed, wind, and percussion instruments. Military personnel in formal dress uniforms were everywhere, shining like Christmas lights and drawing the eye to the reason for the patriotic display. The performers were excellent; the tributes stirring; and the fireworks display awesome, especially when the 1812 Overture boomed across the sparkling skies, punctuated by live cannon fire and pierced by jetliners landing at the nearby airport.

This is America, the land of the free and the home of the brave, at its best.

Few Valley communities hosted fireworks shows and celebrations this year, the events cut from budgets straining to provide the basic necessities for residents reeling from the economic slowdown. I assumed that the neighborhood celebrations would be more widespread and bigger than in past years, so I prepared to grit my teeth and get through it safely.

Last night, I hunkered down and prayed that none of the bottle rockets whizzing overhead would score a direct hit. I kept the dogs locked up as literally hundreds of fireworks not just lit up the sky around me, but shook the earth from the concussive force of the explosions and rained debris into my yard and onto my roof. When the "safe and sane" fireworks were gone, the hand-held pistols added the coda to the night: bang, bang, bang; bang, bang, bang; bang, bang, bang. As I cringed inside my home, I prayed that the guns were being shot into the air and not aimed at my outside walls or fellow party-goers.

The crash house two doors down, the one with perhaps as many as two dozen occupants, had a fireworks budget to rival any small town. The missiles went aloft in all directions and showered my yard with the dying embers, as well as the house next door, the house behind me, the house across the street, and the empty lot. I kept a watchful eye on the hoses I stretched out, ready for use, in both the front and backyards, just in case. The neighbors next door to me, on the other side, added their stash of fireworks to the night sky, and then the house a couple down from me, across the street, lit up the night. Behind me, the live band played festive Mexican music as part of the host's extensive fireworks display.

Believe it or not, in an area devastated by wildfires that raged out of control for weeks, fireworks are legal. Anyone can buy "safe and sane" fireworks available to the families who want their own patriotic salute in their backyards, which is neither a safe, nor a sane, activity. Some communities, like mine, have a stipulation that the fireworks cannot be sent heavenward, but since the majority of the fireworks are bought in Mexico for use in nearby SoCal communities, the regulation means nothing to the revelers who want to have the biggest, the best, and the loudest celebration in town.

Could I call the police? Sure, but law enforcement has its hands full with the drunks, the gang fights, the traffic accidents, the everyday business of the cops in any community. It's best to just wait it out, hoses ready, and hope that the party-goers run out of incendiary devices before they start a home on fire or anyone gets hurt.

Happy Birthday, America! I'm so glad we celebrate your birthday once a year, and not more often!!