Fireworks Spark So Many Memories

When watching the Fourth of July display felt like a show of national unity

Fourth of July fireworks were a pretty big deal for my family. My younger brother was born on Independence Day and for a time, we pretended the annual pyrotechnic display was for his personal benefit.

Maybe because of that early fixation, my memories of Independence Day fireworks remain sharp: Freezing my preschool toes off in a pair of pink plastic high heels during an unseasonably chilly Fourth of July night. Sitting on the car hood with my brother during a visit home to Rockford as young adults. Flying into O’Hare from an assignment in New York and watching fireworks light up the night from below. Lounging with my future husband on his Buchanan plaid blanket at the Fort Leavenworth Army base. Joining the throng on the Charles River Esplanade to celebrate with the Boston Pops.

But my sweetest fireworks memories are the ones we made with our children in Downers Grove.

Photo by Roven Images on Unsplash

Early on, we happened upon the open spaces of Divine Savior Parish and Mar-Duke Farm as the perfect place to catch the display. Not only was there plenty of room to stretch out, but the traffic light at the corner of Main and 67^th streets made for a quick getaway afterward.

Only twice in 15 years did we allow ourselves to be lured to a shopping center parking lot by friends. But asphalt didn’t suit our family, even if it did provide a closer view of the sparklers fired from the intersection of 75th Street and Lemont Road.

No, give us a blanket on soft grass, a hundred anonymous neighbors thrilling to the same patriotic display, and little children running with abandon under the color-splashed sky.

We equipped our kids with glowing light sticks and watched them romp, sometimes with their cousins, sometimes with friends, mostly just the two of them. Back in those days, running around a dark field after bedtime was a bigger attraction than the fireworks.

As teenagers, they would occasionally deign to join us on the blanket and watch for their favorite firecrackers. I suspect we aren’t the only family that had names for all the old stand-bys. We know them as the dandelion, the multiplier and the weeping willow.

And we were always thrilled when new fireworks were added to the rotation. I remember a floating heart, a smiley face and a gorgeous shimmering sparkler that took my breath away.

That seems like a long time ago now. It was a long time ago. The kids are grown and living elsewhere, where they may or may not make a point of catching the local fireworks display.

The last time we went to our usual spot, just the two of us, we discovered the manicured swath of grass had been allowed to grow wild. And the trees on the far horizon were much bigger than they were 20 years ago, obscuring the view.

I miss that annual trek, but not enough to haul out to the asphalt and get caught in traffic on the way home. Instead, I’ll remember stretching out on that trusty old plaid blanket with the ones I love best as the midsummer night sky morphed from red to blue to silver.

I always liked the idea that as we watched, fireworks were also exploding in towns big and small across the country. There was something so hopeful, so dynamic and so American about loudly and boldly celebrating the nation’s birth year after year after year in same dazzling way.

It made me feel like we were one enormous family, united for 30 minutes as red and blue painted the sky, commemorating a visionary document that created a nation out of disparate people, languages, viewpoints and beliefs. And if I squint my eyes, I can almost convince myself we still are.