Fireworks and Thoughts on a Hot August Night

The sky in Pennsylvania goes on forever.  Last night, I saw it lit up and blazing, every part, with fireworks and raindrops.

My daughter's friend invited my little fam to meet up with hers at "A Night in the Country," an annual farewell to summer, filled with expensive food, $5 lemonade, carnival games, vintage cars, a bad country band with heavy bass, teenagers experimenting with the boundaries of their freedom and flirting, and TONS of people. (In other words, I found myself as much in my element as dear Austin Scarlett in a Bait and Tackle).  The evening air hung sticky and heavy with the impending rain, scheduled to arrive after midnight.  We placed our blanket on the field, and our daughter escaped with her friend and her friend's father, and my husband and I went to look at the cars.

As we walked, he with his admiration of the cars, me with my dread of crowds and heat, I wished I were the kind of wife who could truly enjoy the moment with him--not detract from his enjoyment.  I think I somewhat accomplished that air of enthusiasm with the car show, but there's no hiding how crowds of people make me feel, and, unfortunately, I'm not the kind of woman who looks fresh and granola in any and all weather--my body and hair kind of wilt, just like my spirits, in humidity and heat; it's always been that way.

When we went back to our blanket, our daughter popped back in within minutes, sugared up and drunk with prizes and the excitement of being with her friend.  Even more than I'd wished with my husband, I longed to be the kind of mom enthusiastically participating in these moments, even suggesting them, because they will become her memories of growing up in the country.

Yet there were still two more hours left to wait before the fireworks, and the people kept coming...and coming.  And the air kept getting heavier and heavier.

"What time is it, Mom?"  Every 10 minutes on cue, my daughter asked, and I wished, for my own sake, that I could tell her that there were only 10 more minutes...or even only an hour left.  But the time dragged, and the band kept playing--the bright point being an only-slight butchering of one of my favorite Cash songs and a rousing example of a white-bread Pennsylvanian band attempting to belt out a song with a line in Spanish (uh-oh)...to them, the line was "Via Con Mios."  Mmmm Hmmm.

The kids escorted adults throughout the midway a few more times, the too-near port-a-potties began making their presence known, and still, I wished I was honestly enjoying the whole thing.  I wished that when my daughter, inevitably, asked if we can return next year, I'd have an emphatic "YES!" to give to her, yet all that went through my mind, non-stop, was I hope Zen (my chihuahua) hasn't peed on the bed to punish us for being gone so long (because she HAS done that) and At least in an hour I'll be done with this night    I hated myself for thinking that way.

A half  hour before the scheduled fireworks--nearly three and a half hours after our arrival, the rain started.  At first, the drops were so minimal I thought that I must be getting hit with some errant teenager's water gun, but only a couple of elderly ladies sat behind us, and while their smiles were a bit deviant, I couldn't pin the crime on them.  More drops, and the rain was official.  Are you kidding me?  How much more into hell do I have to be?  I hated myself a bit more.

And then, finally, the band stopped, the floodlights went out, and the first round of fireworks shot into the sky and burst into flowers of light and sounded with booms that competed with my heartbeat...and the rain didn't matter.  The crowds didn't matter.  My daughter huddled up under a blanket against the rain with her friend, and her "oohs and ahhs" were the only thing louder than the blasts above.  I heard the rain plunk on my soaked shirt, my arms dripping with rain, my hair wet and uncomfortable, and--in that moment--it became okay.  Next to me, I saw my husband's face light up, pink, golden, smiling, and beautiful.  I've never seen fireworks in the rain before.  This is amazing.  Look who I get to be with.

The most magnificent display flared up like a bright dandelion, changed into a gold weeping willow, and covered the entire sky.  I never knew that the sky, that I constantly marvel as infinite, could be totally blocked with sparks and color.  

The blasts and booms resounded in the sky and under us into the ground, reverberating through our bodies and forcing smiles and awe.  That's when other thoughts, beyond myself, occurred to me.  How lucky I am to live in a place where these sounds, these flashing lights in the night sky, don't mean something else entirely different.  How lucky I am that these earth-shaking and machine-gun rapid sounds don't mean death and war.  That these vibrant bursts of fast fire in the sky bring smiles and happy memories, rather than tears and memories that leave indelible trauma bruises on the soul.  The finale of the show was such a mess of all the remaining fireworks at once, all sound and fury, that it almost wasn't possible to see individual fireworks--the sky looked war-torn.  This must be what it's like.  I can't imagine this being my reality and expectation of normal life.  I can't imagine the heartache of raising my child in a place where this all meant destruction and fear, rather than the end of summer.

With a deafening BOOM, it was done.  The sky went black, all sulfur and smoke, and the floodlights came back on.  The crowd was back, and the rain had stopped.

The exodus began--walking bodies and cars--and I held the hands of my people, as we walked the line, my daughter recounting the night and winding down from her sugar high.  All in all, it took a good 40 minutes or more of sitting in our car before my husband could fanangle us out of the lot and onto the road back home. 

Thankfully, Zen didn't pee on the bed.  My daughter did, of course, ask if we'd go back next year; I didn't say "no."  This morning, my up-at-the-crack-of-dawn-girl didn't wake up until past 9:30--enough time for me to make blueberry muffins for her and at least be "that kind of mom" the morning after, while she ate and told me all about the night, once again.