Go, Fourth!

I am a sucker for a good fireworks show.

There's something about standing in a large crowd and looking skyward, waiting for that first shot of color and noise to rip apart the darkness, that fills me with both joy and awe.

My mother's birthday was July 05. Each year, on the Fourth, we'd have a big cookout in our back yard, partly to celebrate Independence Day and partly to mark her birthday. This was a major event as marked by a couple of deep-seated traditions, one of which was Dad cooking outside.

Dad hated cooking outside ("Why would I haul all the stuff from the kitchen to the yard, just to prep a meal and eat out there, just to haul it all back inside and clean it up?"). But for this event, he relented and would drag out the tiny hibachi grill, fill it with briquettes, douse the black squares with lighter fluid, and, to our pyromanical glee, ignite the pile into a mini-mushroom cloud of flame.

But after dinner, the real magic started.

We lived with walking distance of a huge tract of community land that had space for four baseball fields, one at each corner.

Each year, the local fire house staged an impressive fireworks display in this field.

And best of all, we had easy access. Whereas other viewers had to deal with the traffic snarls (and cranky back-seat kids) associated with entry/exit into the neighborhood (and parking), we merely left our backyard, walked half a block to the field, and were set.

The sunlight would eventually start to loosen its hold on the day, turning pale yellow, then gold, then orange. And each color progression ramped up the excitement level.

As the sun disappeared altogether and the sky turned purple on its way to black, the technicians would test-fire a shot or two, to gauge the wind, I suppose. But when these singular streaks of light would launch for the sky, everyone's attention was immediately focused upward, hoping that it signaled the start of the show.

Alas, it was just a test shot.

But eventually, the initial salvo would begin and the explosions and bursts of color were a wonder to behold.

I loved every minute. The different shapes. The chrysanthemums. The screamers. The cascades. The waterfalls. And the thundering impact of the shells, which left dots on the inside of the eyeballs from their bright explosions. And thuds in the pit of the stomach.

Best of all -- and this factor seems to be gone from modern-day firework displays -- this show always included a ground display or two. This would be an array of sparklers or pinwheels that were lit at ground-level rather than being launched into the sky. I most remember the formation of an American flag, blazing in red, white, and blue glory. Or a bald eagle. Or some other patriotic image.

Not sure what has happened to these displays. But they seem to be absent from most modern-day shows.

I believe it was Dad who taught me that the quality of a fireworks show can be judged by the number of times the color blue is represented. Apparently, according to him, the chemical mix required to burn as blue is the most expensive; therefore, the more blue, the more the outlay for the show.

The finale was always the best. Shot after shot in quick succession, until the sky was painted from horizon to the moon with a kaleidoscope of hues. And those explosions, where the displaced air pressure would cause the cuffs of my shirt and shorts to twitch in response.

And then. Silence. Followed quickly by a rousing cheer.

The neighborhood fireworks show was a beloved tradition when I was a kid.

But it wasn't a permanent one.

It was eventually cancelled by the community, much to my bitter disappointment. Some neighbors whose properties bordered the field complained about safety issues, and although I could see their point, it didn't make sense to me as a kid. After all, how much safer could you get than a fireworks display sponsored by a fire house?!?!?

But my love of fireworks stuck and remains to this day. No matter where or when, I'm always eager to see those magnificent, earth-shattering lights in the sky. If we're driving along and see one in the distance, I'll always pull over and gaze, ignoring the clock or the kids' complaints in the back ("Fireworks are boring!").

The community we now live in sponsors a yearly show on July 04, and again, it's a walkable distance to attend (it's amazing to me how many echoes of my own childhood continue to reverberate in my adulthood). And we go every year. Even our elder-teen who complains ("Fireworks are boring!").

Things haven't changed much with pyrotechnics over the decades. Sure, the days of men running with torches to light physical fuses have been replaced by computer-fired methods, but the centuries-old attraction of colorful explosions against a canvas at night remains.

Computerization and technology now allow more precise firings, which has led to an increased ability to synchronize shows to music. It's a great effect and can increase the power of the emotional response to fireworks.

For example, Disney uses a blend of music, imagery, and fireworks to close Epcot's operating hours every day. The first time I saw "Illuminations, Reflections of Earth," it brought me literally to tears, swept away by the sheer power and emotion of the combo. Even hearing the music, without the visuals, can cause the hair on the back of my neck to stand on-end.

The one thing I insist on with fireworks, however, is attendance. Fireworks displays are absolutely magical in person.

And lame-lame-lame on television.

Maybe it's the knowledge that you're there with family and friends, huddled on a blanket in the cool grass, grateful that the heat of an early July afternoon has ebbed away, giddy with excitement over that first volley.

Maybe it's the thrill of seeing thousands of faces lit by the backwash of light, turning them in unison to blue, green, orange, white.

Maybe it's the percussive whump that signals a new shot, followed by a corkscrewing streak of light hundreds of feet up, a pyrotechnic tadpole that the bursts open into a flowering shower of color for all to see.

Maybe it's the comic sight of the kids who jam fingers in their ears to protect against the earth-shaking booms that follow.

It's probably all of it.

All of it together.

Whatever it is, I will be right there in the dark with you. Smile plastered on my face. Eyes bright. Oooh-ing and Aaah-ing.

No more test-shots. Let the show begin!

Rockets Red Glare

I've written before about my rather obsessive love of fireworks.

I've seen some great shows in my day: July 04 displays that end with a barrage of shells made me think the night sky was noontime. And the deafening explosions rang in my ears until I'd finished the long walk back to the car.

One memorable show was on the Philadelphia Parkway, in front of the Art Museum. The power of the explosions was so forceful, I felt the legs of my shorts being tugged with every shot, moving on their own from the sudden changes in air pressure.

But only one fireworks show stands out as truly unforgettable.

And not surprisingly, it was courtesy of Walt Disney Parks and Resorts in Orlando.

I had heard about this show, which blazed nightly over World Showcase Lagoon in EPCOT. I'd heard about the power of the music and the use of multiple visuals including fountains, lasers, fire, barges and projections to create a fireworks show unlike any other.

What I wasn't prepared for was the sheer emotional wallop this show packed. At least for me.

We first saw it when Kristin was very young; in fact, she spent most of the performance cowering in Eileen's shoulder to escape the sheer power of the audio and visuals.

I, however, was rapt.

From the impressive opening, whose narration about the power of gathering to share stories, ended with the whimsical blowing out of a ring of giant torches, ala a massive birthday cake.

The music then took over, full of chaos and fury but evolving into a four-movement symphony that helps the story unfold. It covers the dynamic range of fortississismo (that's three fs, people) to pianississimo (three ps) and back again. Its time signatures swung between syncopated measures of 5/8 and 3/8 to calmer sections of 6/8 to bouncy measures of a more traditional sounding 4/4.

The accompanying visuals were showers of sparks, explosions of color, bursts of fire, beams of light and video images on the large globe that had been floated to the middle of the lagoon.

After the dazzling finale, it segued into two vocal selections ("We Go On" and "Promise") before the final exit music.

Eileen was rather distracted as Kristin was freaking out, and Amanda was somewhat nonplussed by it all. But I remember Claire looking up at me as it ended, with tears streaming down her cheeks (matching my own waterworks, fyi). When I asked her what was wrong, she said, "The magic's all over."

To this day, I'm not sure if she meant the magic of the fireworks display or the magic of the entire trip, which was indeed ending, as we were departing the following morning.

We got back to Disney a handful of years later and Illuminations was must-see. Kristin was much calmer this time and enjoyed herself.

Somewhere along the line, I acquired an EPCOT soundtrack, and the Illuminations music remains to this day a favorite. I play it in the car loud enough to strain my speaker system. But it still moves me.

Illuminations is on its way out, according to the Disney folks. The lagoon at EPCOT is due for a refresh, and with it will come a new show. And I suppose that's as it should be. "We Go On" is more than just a theme song to an evening entertainment extravaganza; it's a viewpoint for all of Walt Disney World.

And life in general, I suppose.

So tomorrow night, July 04, I will stand with neighbors and family at our local golf course, stare at the sky and oooh and aaah.

But somewhere deep, I'll wish I was in Florida once again being literally blown away by a fireworks show.

A Century Plus Two

My aunt called Thanksgiving night to deliver the news that my grandmother -- Nana, to her seven grandchildren and howevermany great-grands -- had passed away.

She was 102.

It is sad but not overly so. She had declined significantly in the past handful of years. We made a large to-do over her 100th birthday, understandably, but since then, her awareness and clarity were on a steady decline.

I visited her, although not as often as I probably should have, which will now follow me around for a while as a cloud of guilt. I usually took Parker with me, just to brighten up her day. But he seemed to do more for the other more cognizant residents of her assisted living facility than for her.

Conversation was tough, especially the last time I saw her. She was bent over her lunch plate, hair in wisps over her face, slowly lifting food to her mouth to gum at it. Her watery blue eyes, usually so fiery with verve, were unfocused and gray.

I'm not even 100% sure she knew who I was. The past few times I went to see here, there was always a muddle about the distinction between her husband George and her son George, my dad. The stories of both their passing would cross over one another as she blended the details. 

Not that it mattered. Both events were hugely painful for her.

But the Nana I'll remember far longer and with greater affection than the Nana she became is the Nana that had spunk and vigor. The one who would break into song while washing the dishes after a huge birthday dinner party at her house

 "Peg o' my heart! I love you; Don't let us part; I love you..."

I'll remember the Nana who came absolutely laden with gifts at Christmas, both when we were kids and when my kids were kids.

I'll remember the Nana who hosted my brothers and me for overnights. The weekends were always full of fun. I remember trips to the Philadelphia Zoo and Dorney Park. Skating and merry-go-round rides in Fairmont Park. And rides on trolley cars, something three burby boys had never done.

I'll remember the Nana who used to have me for dinner one evening each December, when we'd haul out her tiny artificial tree, decorate it together and raise a glass to sweet memories.

I'll remember the Nana who was there for Easter eggs, pumpkin carvings, July Fourth fireworks, graduations, Christenings, engagements, weddings and cookouts. I'll remember the creamy cucumber salad she used to make. And the birthday cakes that were several stories high. The Christmas poppers. The "kids" table. The Sundays we would go for dinner and then gather around the TV set for The Wonderful World of Disney before heading home. Tupperwares of Pepperpot Soup for Dad, with never enough doughballs. The vacations at the shore, when steamy pre-airconditioned nights were wiled away playing Uno. Whiskey sours and Manhattans. Playing the foil for Pop-pop, who used to giggle with us kids by shorting out the doorbell with a screwdriver in the basement, making her think someone was at the front. Candy-glass taffies. Circus peanuts. Bags of Halloween candies. Chocolate-covered coconut Easter eggs with our names inscribed on them in scripted icing. The time she came to visit us in Limerick and got snowed in for almost a week, leading us all to get a touch of cabin fever.

At 102, there was so much life she had seen first-hand: She would tell stories of old Philadelphia, when snow in the streets would cause residents to haul out sleighs and commute via horsepower. And when a trip to the shore was an arduous adventure that began and ended with long waits for ferries to the Jersey side (no bridges). She saw two World Wars. And tough times during the Depression, when she and her husband and two young children experienced a household budget stretched almost to the breaking point, forcing the reliance on the generosity of the extended family to get by. Civil rights. Kennedy assassination. Space exploration. Construction and destruction of the Berlin Wall. 9/11. All witnessed first-hand.

She was a great-grandmother.

And a great grandmother.

Rest well, Nana. We love you.

To the Moon, Alice. To the Moon!

"Boys.... Boys: Wake up."

I remember this call very, very faintly. It was my mother.

And it was around midnight, Eastern Standard Time.

And it was July 21, 1969.

Blinking and shielding our eyes from the light, we padded down the hall to my parents bedroom, where the TV was.

And on the screen was a fuzzy, blurry, black-and-white image of ... I wasn't really sure. I was, after all, only six years old.

But what really struck me -- and what remains memorable these 50 years later -- is what my mother said to me and my brothers: "I want you to see this. I want you to be able to tell your grandchildren you saw man land on the moon."

I'm not sure what drove my mom to be such a fan of the space program. I can only guess that it was her fandom of President Kennedy, who kicked this effort up big time before his assassination.

My dad was equally as interested, working in Naval Aeronautics his entire career. He was wowed by the engineering of it all.

He was also pretty conversant on the nighttime sky. He liked pointing out the constellations to us, whose shapes he learned at sea. Topside on a ship at night, he claimed, enabled even the most faint of faraway stars to stand out like a diamond on a black cloth.

He also told me to look for the man in the moon by imagining it was like the logo for the Jackie Gleason Show. I took him literally, and was trying to see Ralph Kramden in a surface of vague pits and crevasses.

Can't tell you how old I was before I finally discerned the man in the moon.

As the following years unspooled, man in space, man on moon became more common. I remember the advertising associated with it, specifically Tang (even though the stuff had been around since the late 1950s). And I remember things like the lunar rover.

CBS on Saturday Mornings ran a show called In the News, which was a two-minute recap of national stories that the producers thought would be interesting to kids. Christopher Glenn was the host, and the show would be nestled into the lineup of cartoons. Many of these reports centered on the space program into the 1970s (lots of coverage on Skylab), and I well remember waiting for them to be over to get back to "Archie" and "The Groovy Ghoulies."

When we went as a family to Walt Disney World in 1973, Dad worked in a side-trip to Cape Kennedy. And in all honesty -- after a handful of days of audio animatronic attractions, stellar fireworks, elaborate parades, amazing restaurants, and character interactions -- I was bored to death looking at rocket towers and gigantic warehouses.

(Always thought we should have flipped those trips, done the space stuff first, then gone to Disney. Eh. Hindsight.)

The space program faded somewhat from my consciousness after that, until the Challenger disaster in 1986.

Since then, I've hoped we could recapture the technological oomph (and the budgetary resources) to get back into space. It's currently resurfacing as an idea in Washington (Space Force. Yes!! Even if it sounds like a cheesy Sci-Fi TV series), but I doubt it has the public support to find funding, especially under the current administration.

Still, I'm grateful for that midnight call to come and stand in front of the TV set. I may not remember every detail to tell my grandkids.

But I remember some.

And I look upward a the full moon often.

And somehow see Jackie Gleason.