This time of year people spend large amounts of money on loud, sparkly explosive materials. Man’s obsession with fireworks has always mystified me a bit. I mean, I like to blow shit up as much as the next macho man, but I feel that it’s gotten out of hand. Seems there’s a fireworks show after every event that ends past sunset. I try not to be a curmudgeon, but sometimes it’s a losing battle.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve attended and enjoyed many fireworks displays. Done the all-day Fort Vancouver thing, back in the late ’80s, when beer and camping were still allowed. I saw teenagers (who looked suspiciously like 40-year-olds) shoot mortars at a passing freight train. I saw one of the mortars, a dud of sorts, trickle out the end of the cannon, roll under a Winnebago and start a grass fire. A friend, trying to be hero of the day, ran over, tossed his glass of chablis onto the fire, then dove to roll on the flames. His aim was a bit off, he hit the side of the Winnebago head-on and knocked himself unconscious. Fortunately, another fellow with foresight whipped out a fire extinguisher and put the flames out. HAW ha!
That same summer, while living in a car, some asshole threw a lit firecracker into the cracked-for-air window. I awoke just in time ro realize what was happening, or I probably would have had a heart attack. Better in the car than underneath, I guess. I’m grateful there were no gas or oil leaks inside the car…
A decade ago, my niece was barely six months old, and the family went outside to shoot off the legal Oregon variety of fireworks. The neighbors, of course, had the good stuff from Washington, and the explosions were freaking the baby out. So we went back up to the second-floor apartment, put on some Pink Floyd and watched the street show from my window. She cried for a while, but I talked her out of being scared. The smoke outside was so thick you couldn’t see the street lights. (It was a no-wind 4th, the most noxious I can remember.) The smell of sulfur and cordite hung in the air for days, and I can almost still taste it just thinking about it.
After work last night, er, this morning, I puttered around the kitchen, and my now ten-year-old niece was up, watching cartoons and supervising my cooking when the thunderstorms started. (500+ strikes, according to Rhonda Shelby.) She grabbed her stuffed kitty, and said, “This is freaking me out a little…”
I popped open the front door, had her kill the lights, and we watched as the storm rolled over. One hit was very close, it even made me flinch. The magnificent downpour of rain, the heaviest I’ve seen in Oregon, (and I’ve seen a lot) washed away the hot sticky feel of the day. I pointed out to my niece that man may think he has cool fireworks, but Mother Nature always trumps.
I recall some years back, after a night of rowdy storms, I was watching KATU news, an early weekend edition, featuring Katie Brown and Tiffany McElroy. (Rowarr!)
The dialogue went something like this:
Katie: “Wow, those were some thunderstorms last night, huh?”
Tiffany: “Yeah.” (To camera) “It woke us up.”
They exchanged glances.
Tiffany: “Uh, I should say it woke us up at our separate places of residence…” She got the giggles, Katie got the giggles, and soon we were at commercial break. I wonder if it’s on YouTube somewhere?
But I digress.
I love the rage, the power, the magnificence. I saw a lightning bolt take out a stop sign once, so I know better than to make myself a target. (Melted and mangled are the terms that come to mind.)
If it comes down to a fireworks display or a thunderstorm, I know which one I’ll be rushing to see. I won’t be stuck in traffic afterward, and the air will smell much sweeter.
Thanks for the show, Mother Nature!
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