-Remembering Punctuated Fireworks-

Voices over the public address system promised a fireworks display that would surpass those of yesteryear. My neighbor, the worldly cynic, kept up a running commentary about firework displays in neighboring townships, the quality of which he unconsciously linked to the tax-bracket.

When the large, multicolored explosives ignited, children of all races and creeds expressed their pleasure, sang off-key. They screamed words, or the un-translatable "whooo!" The latter expression was a favorite of the tanked, as well. We were close enough to smell all kinds of smoke.

I believe we heard five tinny songs, none but the national anthem in its entirety. At some point it became clear that planners were attempting to choreograph the fireworks to the music. For example, 'God Bless America' inspired the incendiary maestro to match colors with lyrics:

From the mountains, [Green and White]
To the prairies, [Yellow and Green]
To the ocean, [Blue]
white with foam, [White]
God [Shower of Gold Sparks] bless America, [Red] My home [Red] sweet [Red] home. [Red-Red-Red]

So, this firework theologian envisions god as a shower of gold. The ancient Greeks thought so, too, as far as it suited the myth of Zeus and Danae.

The 'whooo!' ejaculations continue, but I feel unmoved by the display. In fact, the fireworks seem to enunciate a generation gap; the young and the intoxicated enjoy it the most, the older generation and the stoned enjoy it quietly or not at all. I try to abandon myself to the bursts of light, but there's no turning back the clock once you've understood the effects of municipal waste. From now on, fireworks are something to be endured, and I'm pleased when the finale comes and goes.

My neighbor, the worldly cynic, is not. He timed the sequence as three minutes shorter than last year, and he raises his voice over the cheers of the young, the intoxicated, over the applause of the elders and the coughing fits of the stoners, to tell us how much that sucks.