THE BOMBS BURSTING IN AIR

We started having Fourth of July parades in the early 70s when our children were toddlers. The neighborhood kids decorated Big Wheels and wore super-hero capes. When my husband added a margarita bar to the lemonade stand,  parents were overcome with patriotism, and the parade grew exponentially.

A bike parade around the block out here in the boonies would celebrate both July Fourth and Fifth, so we switched to a picnic. Over the years it turned into a huge all day and evening picnic. Our house, two decks, sun porch, and driveway are packed with friends and some people we haven't yet identified. One year we were gone, and some people came anyway.

The highlight of the July Fourth picnic is Bruce’s Fearsome Fireworks show. This man who lets everyone cut in line, who chats politely with robo-callers, is not the least bit worried about filling his trunk and back seat with totally illegal fireworks. He scans the mega-firework stores along I-94 in Indiana, scoping out who has the biggest inventory, who has the wildest explosives. Once inside, his inner-pyro takes over. I am surprised at the size and scope of explosives that they will sell to a senior citizen. These are not snakes or firecrackers; these are mortars that can bring down planes heading into Cedar Rapids International Airport, things that burst and then burst again, that squeal and shower sparks over the pond.

We have a 20-acre field that is perfect for setting up a major fireworks display. The crowd sits in the driveway at a theoretically safe distance. One thing about an Iowa field in July: it is tinder dry. It’s not quite as dry as our cedar shake roof, but dry nonetheless. I spend the day on the bucket brigade, carrying water to each little site he has selected.

I admit it: I am not a calm spectator. For example, I do not like the sight of Bruce and my nephew staring at the Whirling Spike of Death, their faces just a few feet away, trying to decide if the fuse is really lit.

Nor do I not like the 32” tall Annihilator Rocket being aimed at a row of my closest friends.

At our last Fourth of July party, Bruce set up a huge area packed with whizzers, bombers, zippers, and such for the finale. His display far outdoes most of the small towns around us. At least this time he put up a sheet of plywood so he could dive behind it after the fuses were lit. Thank goodness for that. 5 seconds. 10 seconds. 20 seconds. The crowd leans forward into the dark night. Then––and this is no surprise–– he cannot help himself. He simply must come around to see what’s taking so long. That’s exactly when the Iowa County Apocolypse occurs. Just in time, he dives like Mark Spitz, narrowly escaping a Crackling Fireball Colonoscopy, a procedure not covered by Medicare.

The Finale as I remember it

My voice echoes across the prairie. “Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuce!”

And from next to me there comes a little voice, full of indignity. My friend’s 6 year old, standing there with his hands on his hips, says, 

“He’s doing––

                           the best––

                                                that he can!”

A good point. Somehow a very frightening point, but a good one nonetheless.