Sitting inside my house to escape the oppressive humidity of Washington DC today, I find myself looking back fondly upon my various July 4th celebration experiences. I will admit it: I love the 4th of July. I love the community fireworks, I love the sulfur smell that hangs in the air, I love the sunburns and girls in bikini tops, I love the neighborhood fireworks displays assembled from items "smuggled" in by a rich uncle on his drive back from a Florida vacation or purchased from the trunk of a police officer's cruiser. And did I mention girls in bikinis? I love that for one day of the year, all Americans act as one to celebrate this great nation, despite its myriad of faults. I have experienced the largest and probably smallest of July 4th celebrations from my years in Boston to my upbringing in Gas City, Indiana, and I think the small town celebrations win hands down.
Sure, sitting along the Charles River on the Esplanade is fun, but it pales in comparison to my small town experiences. In my youth in the 1970s and early 80s, it all started weeks before with the town's children fanning through the neighborhoods soliciting canned foods for the needy and monetary donations for the fireworks display. Numerous tin cans filled with crumpled dollar bills and handfuls of change would ensure everyone would be delighted come the evening of the 4th. The needy did not fair as well, but were still happy with the creamed corn, lima beans, and beets they received.
The days before the big show had almost a festival air to them with people camping along the river in the city's park. A small fair would also descend upon the park consisting of rides; unwinnable carnival games; food stalls hawking elephant ears, funnel cakes, lemon-shake ups, cotton candy, and pork tenderloins; and small merchants selling items of dubious quality and value (my father never did believe me that I needed those throwing stars to protect myself on the mean streets of Gas City).
Much to my delight and consternation of my mother, we lived just over 50 yards from a small fireworks packaging factory (Family Fireworks). This also ensured a never ending supply of smoke bombs, sparklers, various fountains, spinning contraptions, whistling doohickies, and mysterious black snakes that emitted a pungent smoke. All of these items were purchased with funds assembled from mowing yards, doing odd chores, and empty Coke bottle deposit returns. Indiana had laws preventing the sale of the "really cool stuff", so my brother and I set up a little enterprise in the neighborhood where we would order bottle rockets (Moon Rockets were the main choice) and firecrackers (Black Cat, naturally) from companies out-of-state to sell to other folks. Weeks before the big show, we would receive a large box clearly marked with "Danger: Class C Explosives" on the side. I once asked a local fireman what "Class C Explosive" actually meant. He said, "Well, Class C is just small pyrotechnic stuff, like firecrackers. Class B, now those are the ones you see up in the sky at night. And Class A, well, that is the shit we used in Vietnam." I guess, in a way, my brother and I were enterprising young weapons smugglers. To this day in certain parts of Gas City, they still speak of the Great Bottle Rocket Wars in the early to mid 80s: terrified pets, demolished trash can lids, broken bottles, and hastily extinguished fires (sorry about almost burning down your house Mrs. Woodring). The neighborhood kids would "battle" several older men in the neighborhood for regional supremacy (which honestly is funny to think about now...I am probably 10 years older than those men were at the time). We fought valiantly with our short distance Moon Rockets with report (that means explosion in the fireworks lingo) against their whistling bottle rockets with much greater range. What we lacked in firepower we more than made up with stupidity. Gravely underarmed, we did the only thing we could do: press our advance behind trash can lid shields to attack. Mothers and wives were screaming at both sides for an end to the war, threatening sanctions of one manner or another against the participants to end the hostilities. God, those were good times.
Back in those days, the community fireworks display was launched by hand. My father knew many of the local volunteer firemen that were responsible for the pyrotechnics, so I would watch them prepare during the day. Most were Vietnam veterans. It was dangerous work, and they would get progressively drunker as the day passed. Looking back, I now realize that for them, that that day and those activities were very important for them. They dug trenches and mortar pits to launch the fireworks, they talked about their days in the war, they drank beer, and they bonded. And more importantly, for one day a year, they exorcised those old war demons that sometimes made their lives so very difficult. I loved those guys.
My mother typically liked watching the large fireworks display from the comfort of a folding chair in our front yard. Me, I liked being right at the launch site...sitting 50-100 feet away from the action. Nothing compares to hearing that "whoomp" as the round would launch out of the mortar pit. I can close my eyes to this day and see the red sparks passing by me from a large aerial shell that exploded almost 20 feet out of the launch pit. It was like being in the middle of it.
Yes, the fireworks displays cannot compete, but the small town atmosphere and the interaction with the people are what really enhance the experience. I will cherish those small town memories.