Unworthiness, Depression, Grief, Fireworks.

Going to see them on July 4 was mandatory, or so it seemed. How could we NOT go out and watch fireworks on the night of July 4? We'd be missing out on something essential, surely. Now, when I got back to school in the fall no one inquired as to whether I had gone to see fireworks on July 4. I guess it's just that they were so rare. Like having your own orange in your Christmas stocking, fireworks came once a year and could not be missed.

But unlike the oranges, fireworks don't come from a store and don't come cheap. Village picnics and fairs which featured pyrotechnic shows tended to charge admission either in the form of an entry fee or by way of food vendors and games that dazzled children would instantly crave. Add to this the hassle of keeping track of everyone (at least one child would get in a huff and want to adventure off on their own) to the constant worry of having one's pocket picked and July 4 was no holiday for my parents. They tried all sorts of means to get around actually taking us somewhere but still sating the desire for fireworks. We drove and drove around. We parked on top of a hill in the dark and were told that we would be able to see all the fireworks shows in the different towns if we just looked real fast. This met with immediate complaint after the first few "look over there! quick! Now there's some over there!". Fireworks were supposed to be big! They should fill the sky and leave the sensation that stellar glitter would soon fall all over one's person.

Finally, my parents hit upon taking us to "Hamlin park". Hamlin Park housed a village picnic for East Aurora and every year they held fireworks. We drove down dark, deserted side streets into the parking lot of a nearby firehouse and watched the show that came up over the trees. I wondered why we were the only ones watching all these fireworks. I wondered why half the show didn't manage to come up taller than the trees. How was one supposed to view them? I sensed something was wrong but didn't realize this was a workaround for a few years. My by then high school aged oldest sisters would murmur about how it would be fun if we went "into the park". My mom began to stay home and not go at all. I couldn't understand how she would think of missing fireworks. That would be like skipping Christmas! But as an adult who has skipped a couple Christmases, I get it now. Something was slightly off. But no one really wanted to bother righting a ship so off kilter from years of habit. My mom wasn't missing fireworks at all. she and my father were routinely bickering over money and debt with sparks that rained down on all of us. I smelled the smoke early, I heard the angry percussions through the wall my bedroom shared with theirs, but didn't understand the burn. Soon enough I knew that any school activity that would require me to bring in money was instantly "no". Ski club membership? NO. Yearbook down payment? No. AFS trip? No. New cleats for field hockey? No. I didn't even ask after 10th grade.

In the summer before I left for college, I worked at the nursing home in East Aurora. I'd get off work at 3, my mom would get off at 5. So for 2 hours I would either go to the public library or walk around town to while waiting for her to ferry me home. One day, in my wanderings, I decided to follow signs to "Hamlin Park". A massive open space hedged along all sides by thick maple trees greeted my shock. Just then I realized the extent of the July 4 ruse. I saw the space full of bodies, vendors selling popcorn and cotton candy, stalls offering games of chance, and all the interpersonal shenanagens of a hot summer night. I realized that the fireworks we had seen from a parking lot were a way of not having to take us into a park where Dad might be pressed upon to spend money.

I wish he were here today to tell me that he meant for it to be better. I wish he could tell me that we didn't go into the park because I was unworthy but because of his own fear and financial insecurity. I wish I'd known how hard things were going for him and had been the kind of kid who would understand. I wish I hadn't wasted so much time twisting the repurcussions of his troubles into a mentality of un-deservedness. But I know where he is, Dad has plenty now. And today I do, too.

Like a puff the flame goes out and drifts into the summer night.