Once upon a time, the very first fireworks were concocted in a cooking pot: cooked up by a Chinese cook in her kitchen. At least, so the legend goes. Apparently the combustible ingredients were right there in her spice cabinet: saltpeter, charcoal, sulfur and a dash of who knows what. A happy and dangerous accident, the recipe erupted pyrotechnically.
Stuff this stuff into bamboo sticks, throw them on the fire, and “POOF! BANG! BOOM!”, fireworks are born.
Great for warding off evil spirits.
Grand for celebrations of state occasions.
Glittering demonstrations of prowess and power (our current POTUS not withstanding!)
"Picture a Tudor king's wedding day, the coronation of a Scottish king, pyrotechnic displays at Czar Peter’s palace, and bright illuminations at Versailles," a Wikipedia article suggests.
And this 4th of July, Roman Candles stand ready to light up our skies. What kind of strange and surreal Independence Day this will be. In less than six months of POTUS’s second administration, what can we salvage? What can we celebrate? How do we declare our independence?
Stand up and sing with me the poetry Francis Scott Key scribbled after the Battle of Fort McHenry in 1814:
O say can you see,
By the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed,
As the twilight’s last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars,
Through the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched,
Were so gallantly streaming.
And the rocket’s red glare,
The bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night
That our flag was still there.
And it was on the eve of that very first 4th, that John Adams, our second president presciently described how future Americans would celebrate the day.
“…with pomp and parade, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of the continent to the other, from this time forward forevermore.”
In other words -- fireworks! Pyrotechnic punctuation marks in the sky.
Remember Independence Days past? What do you recall? What do you miss? Heartsick at the state of the nation right now, this aging hippie is nostalgic for “the hissing of summer lawns.” Many-a-time, in my hometown of Washington, D.C., delighted as a child, I could not wait for Independence Day.
In Bicentennial Days, there was no holier day than July 4th: the most romantic day of the year.
My ex and I would pack a picnic of peanut butter sandwiches, cookies, and fruit, and a six-pack of clearly illegal beer. We’d stuff our duffle bag with baseball hats, books, and bug spray: all for the marvelous day.
We’d head out early on Metro, crowded into subway cars with the tourists – all vying for prime locations and the very best views.
We’d stake out our claim by the Reflecting Pool and spread our old cotton quilt on the ground. We’d plop ourselves down and stretch out under the setting sun, waiting for the blanket of dark to come.
We’d read to each other from Herman Hesse and tune into WHFS. We’d talk and talk and talk and then just be quiet: that lovely intimate quiet wrapped in each other’s arms.
Fireworks -- of a different kind.
Now half a century on, we have gone our separate ways. Twenty-two years now, he has had his life by the sea. Twenty-two years now, my life has been my own. And that is how it is supposed to be. Deeply happy at seventy, I now reside in downtown Winston-Salem. While my peers are all retiring, I am about to start a new job. Tomorrow I go with a friend to set up a new office. I live alone and love it.
And yet it is so strange, that my ex-husband is a stranger to me.
I harbor no resentment and I wish him well. It has been ancient of days since I have missed the man.
Still, independent woman of a certain age, I wouldn’t mind having a little fireworks in my life again: the easy conversation, the comfortable silence, sparks here and there, the meeting of minds. “POOF! BANG! BOOM!”
On a blanket.
On something like the Mall.
On the 4th of July.
Fireworks!
Note: This July 4th, along with the fireworks, there are lots of patriotic ways to celebrate and defend our democracy. Check out Free American Weekend events and ideas on 50501.