Vegas Fireworks

The nights in Vegas don’t cool down.  The air is still hot.  You know how it feels to open an oven to check on cookies?  Your face sizzles a little and it takes your breath away?  THAT kind of hot.  I always worried a little that the air was so hot that maybe the box of fireworks we’d purchase every year would just spontaneously combust.  (They never did.) 

It would warm a kid’s heart when the old, wooden firework stands would start popping up on empty lots around town. The day would come to purchase our fireworks and Dad seemed to know the best fireworks to choose.  We didn’t usually buy the pre-packaged sets. 

“Don’t forget sparklers, Dad!  Oh…and don’t forget snakes!”   These items were appetizers for the bigger cones and rockets that would create the “grand finale.”

One year, Dad bought a spinning contraption called “The Catherine Wheel” that required nailing it to a fence or tree (or something stable.)  My dad didn’t want to destroy our tree, so he nailed it in just a little bit.  Once lit, it began to spin, shooting out sparks and colored flames as it spun around and around, faster and faster.  It was magical and mesmerizing. It was like watching a spinning hypnosis wheel. We all watched in awe and then in shock, as it had enough of that tree and flew off with a life of its own.  The spinning momentum carried it across the yard, straight for my little sister, Becky.  She screamed and ran as this flaming, spinning creature seemed to chase her around the yard. I think the Catherine Wheel we purchased that year was possessed or had a mind of its own. It seemed to “chase” Becky no matter where she ran.  She zigged and zagged and serpentined, but to no avail. Finally, the Catherine Wheel sputtered and stopped and dramatically fell over. Leaving little Becky shaking and sobbing, but still alive.

The bottle rockets and cones were carefully positioned in the middle of the asphalt street. The asphalt was still hot from the triple digit weather.  The driveway was just right, so we’d sit on the driveway as bugs circled the streetlight above, chased by small, black bats. My dad would light the dangerous fireworks (allowing the bigger kids to light them if they so desired.)  I liked sitting on the warm driveway, lighting the little black tabs that grew to be 4^th of July snakes or writing my name in cursive in the air with multi-colored sparklers. It would really get exciting when a big firework appeared to be a “dud.”  My dad and the braver siblings would stand around trying everything they could to get the uncooperative firework to do it’s thing. The worrier in me showed up even then.

“No Dad…just leave it…it’s okay.  We don’t need it to work.”  but he never seemed to hear my pleas.

They would stand around holding a match right up to the cone, trying to revive it, like fireworks CPR.

I imagined it going off, burning faces, blowing off fingers, all of the horror stories you hear every year around the 4^th…   But, luckily, that never happened.  It would sputter and spark and my dad would yell, “Out of the way…it’s working!”  and it would sputter and cough and spit out some sparks.  Sometimes, it stayed quiet and we would sadly lament the loss of a cone so full of hope and potential. 

As I grew up and moved away from Vegas, we would attend fireworks shows.  Beautiful displays that would fill the sky accompanied by big, loud booms that you could feel in your chest. Some are even set to music that coincides with the bursting flowers of fire in the night sky.  I love the major firework shows, but there is something about the excitement of buying your own fireworks and the anticipation of the grand display you’ll put on in the middle of the street. Next year I might buy some snakes and sparklers. I’ll write my name in cursive and remember those hot, summer nights of fireworks, family, and yes, even the occasional dud.