Apparently fireworks are illegal in Omaha. You certainly wouldn’t have known it driving through last night. Especially around the 156th/Q area. Steve and I stood in our backyard and the air was thick with smoke. It looked like special effects for a war movie. I tried to take a picture to share, but my cheap $99 camera couldn’t capture the darkness.
No kids live in the house across from us, but there were about twenty kids there, lighting off fireworks for five straight hours. I watched them from the second story window while I was sitting at our computer. Totally creepy, if you ask me. It reminded me of being a kid lighting off fireworks myself, running away the second I lit the fuse as if it were a bomb.
Dad would take us to the fireworks stand in the parking lot of Pizza and Pipes and we would get kid stuff like sparklers and bees and ground flowers. I hated the ground flowers because they always seemed to chase me, no matter what direction I ran. They stalked me into a wild frenzy until they finally fizzled out and died. I’ve always been a bit afraid of anything with fire. Even someone smoking a cigarette in the car with me: I’m afraid it will drop and the car will explode.
It always rained on the fourth of July in Puyallup, but dad would bring an umbrella; he would hover over the stump we used to light the fireworks off of until the fuse was lit. The day after, we would collect shells of used fireworks as if they were prizes.
This morning, Steve spotted a firework with an opened parachute blowing in the wind in our backyard. As an adult, it’s litter: as a kid, it’s a toy. Although I’m 27, I still think the way a kid would at times. It’s as if my younger self is standing next to me and we’re smiling at each other, sharing an inside joke.