Home

• Artifacts
• Buildings & Businesses
• Churches
• Holidays & Celebrations
• Counties/Locations
  • Bay
  • Midland
  • Saginaw
  • Other
• Delta College
• Early Settlers
• Ethnic Background
  • African Americans
  • Americans of Spanish-Speaking Descent
  • European Immigrants
  • Native Americans
• Local, Michigan, U.S. and World Events
• Family Genealogy
• Farming
• Libraries & Museums
• Local Sites
• Logging
• Musicians, Artists & Famous People
• Nature, Weather & Four Seasons
• Railroads
• Schools
• Sports

• About the project
• Authors List
• Resources

When I was a child, the best part about summers were those evenings that stretched on endlessly, when the sun dipped down and the air cooled off. One such evening, the Fourth of July, was when our backyard was transformed from its everyday normality into something much more. There is an old picnic table in our backyard that has seen better days. It has a spot of rot eating through it and splits running down the boards. We never eat on it any more, so its only purpose, it would seem, is to provide a stage for our once-a-year fireworks rituals.

Once the moon crept above the tree line, my father would bring various firecrackers to the picnic table in the backyard. He would line up fireworks like soldiers on the table. Dad would then light a match and touch it to one of the fuses. A bright red sparking ember would travel down the fuse, dropping off disintegrated pieces of wick where the ember had just been. The firecracker would explode, emitting a screech into the darkness as it danced across the picnic table, leaving scorched marks behind like footprints. Sulfur would fill the air around the table and spread out with each following blast, driving away the army of mosquitoes, which such a nice night attracts.

On the back deck, I would lean over the railing towards the backyard, feeling the anticipation for the next string of blasts swell inside me until it seemed it would burst, just like the firecrackers. We children would let out ooh's and aah's as the bursts of light splattered the sky like a crazed painter flicking his paintbrush at the stars. Some of the fireworks were small and let out crackling noises and sputtered small bursts of red, green, blue, and yellow. Others would roar like a current and shoot multicolored sparks straight up out of their tops like a flare, while other firecrackers would hurl themselves into the air and explode into bright patterns.

On the edge of this scene a few bats would circle hunting for insects, probably the ones our smoke was chasing away. After the show I would stare into the meadow behind the yard and take in the tranquility, feeling the wet grass brushing against my feet though my sandals. Lightning bugs would blink on and off, humming at the gateway between the fresh cut grass and the meadow. Night air would whip strands of brush in the meadow, giving the impression of there being something else out there in the darkness under the fog of sulfur.

The Fourth of July comes and goes each year with its exciting and familiar feel. As I look back, it is the uniqueness of this event that preserved its place in my memory. Our private viewing of the Fourth of July fireworks brings with it feelings of endless possibilities, something worth remembering as we grow older.