And there is a lovely tradition sprouting up in the Fourth Weekend, one which echoes the
holidays of my earlier years. It seems I married a man who loves the fireworks. A man who drove to New Hampshire to purchase fireworks. A man who indulged my love of sparklers by buying me 288 colored sparklers and an untold number of smaller ones.
A man who (I'd put money on this) will let me nail a spinning wheel to the porch post in our potential new house....
My dad used to light fireworks (that did not come from New Hampshire, but possibly fell off the back of the truck on the way to New Hampshire) in the streets of Brooklyn. The spinning wheel of colored flames was nailed to the crooked tree out in front of the house and my dad cigerette in hand would light it. My dad is a gruff grouch. He stand places with his hands on his hips scouring the scene like a cop looking at a crime scene (or a crook casing the joint). But get him around kids with sparklers and he lights up, he smiles and laughs and offers to light more for kids who probably are too young for them in the first place.
For some reason I don't remember lighting fireworks on the beach growing up which is odd since we went to the beach every year, maybe we did but the gritty urban fireworks is the picture of my dad in my head. It is the image of my dad that makes me the happiest.