Fireworks and the Magic of Childhood

At every loud noise and every neighborhood firework the little girls shouted, “It’s starting, it’s starting.” The twin girls skipped and leapt about waiting for the fireworks to begin. All the while their mom kept a running dialogue; “That’s the neighbors making noise; Don’t jump over people’s legs; They’ll start in about ten minutes; Look over where those big lights are.”

The girls, with slight speech impediments which made them cuter, bantered, cheered, oohed and awed during the show, “Green and pink are my favorite!, It looks like a heart (to which another kid said it looked like a kidney bean).” It added a wonder and joy to the evening that I had not anticipated.

The children reminded me to revel in wonder. Fireworks are still a mystery to me. I’ve no idea how they get up there and explode in prearranged shapes. I don’t know how they pack all that color into the sky. The girls reminded me of all that. I can remember even recently the feeling that the magic of the display will envelop you. I remember sitting with my back to a high school wall-of-lockers and how the fireworks reverberated when they exploded; especially the big white ones. They are magical.

A lady behind me used to live close to Disneyland so that she could watch the firework show nightly at nine pm. She recounted that after a while she stopped watching them as they faded into the background. That is how we are wired. We have to be vigilant to maintain magic.