Over

(Poetry Month – Week Three)

Over

As darkness falls,

the anticipation builds.

The sound cracks in your ears.

The boom echoes in your chest.

The light flashes and sparkles

and shocks your eyes.

The ash sprinkles down onto your hair.

The fireworks are over.

My parent’s private party, The Pig Roast, was held on Labor Day weekend for 39 years. As far back as I can remember we had fireworks on Sunday night-kind of a final farewell to summer. Small at first, just a few down by the pool. The a few more, down by the creek. Then…fireworks became a standard and an integral part of the weekend. Sunday night were the fireworks.

Betty and her two sons, Ben and Perry were in charge of the fireworks. Ben would take a day off in late August and he and Betty would drive to Indiana to purchase the fireworks. First a smaller amount, a portion of the bed of Betty’s small pickup truck. Eventually, the truck bed was full by the time they had finished shopping.

Betty was in charge, Ben and Perry her assistants. Sometime late Sunday afternoon, the three of them would drive up to the field above the tennant house and barn and survey the area. They would have their list of what fireworks were going to be set off in what order. They organized and placed the fireworks in the field in specific locations. The stage was set. As the sun set we would all be anxious to walk up the road in preparation for the show. Then the parade began. Kids running up the road, adults walking carrying chairs, finally a car with any elders-like my grandparents-would slowly drive up the road and park. My grandparents would get out and someone would get them chairs to sit in so they could enjoy the show to its fullest.

The tenants would come out and join us. We often talked about what happened if the Sheriff arrived. We decided that the Sheriff knew what was going on and enjoyed the show from elsewhere and never bothered us.

The crowd “Ooooooo’d” and “Ahhhhhhhh’d” always led by someone strongly enthusiastic about the responses. Kids got scared, dogs were locked inside the house so they couldn’t attend, beers were shared and sometimes spilled due to great enthusiasm.

There was a small jar on the window sill, in the kitchen, at the house with a little sign that read “Reach Into Your Pockets to Support the Rockets.”