We went to a long day of picnics and fireworks Saturday. Thanks to Gov. Mitch Daniels, darkness falls an hour later, wreaking havoc for parents in the area trying to blot out the sun at bedtime. The local orchestra did lots of filler material until it got dark … and then spent another 30-40 minutes playing before they shot anything into the air. By that time, meltdowns were imminent and kids were some 3-4 hours past normal wind-down bedtime. It was New Orleans kind of hot, and we had a table up front with no shade. What do we have to show for all of that?
About three dozen fireworks and a “finale” that had the feel of an old cork coming off of flat champagne. Pop. Pop-a-pop. Fizzle. Then a long walk to the car and wait in the parking lot.
While Carter was thrilled with what he saw — a big departure from three years ago, when he dragged us up to the front row of the fireworks at the stadium only to run crying in terror the moment the first one went off — Archie wasn’t a fan of the big noises. He curled up on my lap and put his hands over his ears. As the first explosion went off in the sky, he meekly said: “Me not like that sound.” He covered his ears, and promptly fell asleep in that position.
As a kid, I remember the thrill of going to find blanket space on the side of the hill at Woodstock Municipal Park. In the bicentennial year, fresh off my first trip to Disney World where I bought a fake musket Age-Inappropriatenessland, I dressed up as a blue-coat minuteman and ran around defending the locals against the Brits (who, due to convenience, were also locals). We never really got the full wow-ness of the ground displays, but the lights in the air were amazing. I didn’t think they would ever end. So adult me feels shorted by the lack of depth to Saturday’s show. But I looked over at Carter — predicting which rockets were going to have the biggest red glare, and being delighted when he was right about both size and placement in the sky — and I wondered if he noticed.
