A Personal History of Fireworks (On Recollection)

Growing up in Los Angeles fireworks were typically relegated to Fourth of July celebrations and the occasional home run celebration from Dodger's Stadium in Chavez Ravine. I was always attracted to the imagery. There is something primal and potent in controlling explosions.

During visits to my cousins in the valley, I would watch as they would take metal trash can lids and roman candles and play at being wizards. In one hand was their shield, the other their wand. As the candle burned fireballs would fly, and the sound of force hitting metal would be accompanied by the spray of fire, until the last candle was spent and the fight was over.

One year during my teens I joined my brother in visiting his friend in the Pasadena hills. A number of us had gathered at the edge of a hill staring into the darkness as rocket after rocket burst out of the rose bowl and into the sky.

I was on Sparrow Hill in Moscow on the sixtieth anniversary of victory day, joined by thousands to watch as seven locations simultaneously launched their fireworks. The event was over all too quickly, resulting in a mass exodus toward the inner rings of the city.

Summer in Yerevan would occasionally sound like a war zone. The boom of the a cannon would be heard in the distance followed explosions that would send shock waves throughout the city. The night sky would light up with fire, then fade with a faint sizzle. Sometimes multiple times in a night, often multiple times throughout the week.

Alone during the new year I made my way to Republic Square. The streets were cordoned off, the the square packed from shoulder to shoulder. it was cold, but snow had refused to fall that year. As people exhaled, the air filled with mist and smoke.

There is a stage nearby, and someone famous that I have never heard of sings her last song. The countdown begins, and as the new year comes so does the flurry of explosions. They are loud, overwhelmingly so. For a moment the sky is so bright that one would think its day. The air is filled with smoke and the scent of rotting eggs.

An entire city cheers, for a moment there is hope.

There is a beauty to fireworks. They are designed to captivate, they demand attention. Onlookers are entranced, and even jaded aging men, such as myself, find they cannot look away though it may be the thousandth time.

We become little kids, starry eyed, reflecting within them shimmering flakes of light playing out like a movie.