My brother, the bottle rocket
My older brother was one of those guys — a fireworks guy. Do you know one? A guy who loves fireworks so much that the 4th of July becomes more like Christmas — the most wonderful time of the year. For fireworks guys, “wonderful” goes “boom.”
I didn’t understand his obsession when we were kids, but that was okay because he didn’t have a clue why I begged our parents to buy me the next book in the Little House on the Prairie series, even though they’d just given me one two days earlier. He didn’t realize I’d stayed up all night reading the first book and was now jonesing for my next fiction fix.
If I had held up the book, looked him in the eye, and said, “Books are my bottle rockets,” he would’ve instantly understood. For Greg, a package of bottle rockets was the equivalent of a best-selling thriller that always ended with a bang. During the short window of time between when the fireworks stands opened and July 5th, he lit as many fuses as possible.
Fireworks guys get a lot of bewildered, judgmental looks from family and friends this time of year. Today’s biggest, most jaw-dropping fireworks don’t sell cheap, and it’s easy to spend a thousand dollars or more. It’s as close as most people get to literally lighting money on fire.
But that’s not how the fireworks guys see it. For them, it’s about the magical combination of beauty, technology, danger, shock, sound and color. What other time of year do people get to legally play with fire? The holiday marking our nation’s freedom also comes with permission to buy flammable art attached to actual rockets. The fact that it’s risky makes the whole thing that much more irresistible for fireworks guys.
Looking back on our childhood and Greg’s cozy relationship with risk, it’s a miracle he didn’t land in the emergency room. It’s not that he wanted to give our mother reasons to worry. He was just in a hurry to experience the most intense parts of life. Whenever possible, he skipped straight to the good stuff.
One Christmas Eve when we were kids, he not only got up in the middle of the night to open his gifts early, but he also programmed his new remote-control tank to cruise into our grandparents’ bedroom and fire laser lights at 2 a.m. (It’s a funny family story now only because it didn’t trigger cardiac arrest for Grandma and Grandpa.) As an adult, when Greg had dinner out, he’d often order dessert before the entree — convinced that the way to enjoy it most was to eat it first.
I think about my brother a lot during July, his birthday month. I picture him at every firework stand I see beside the road. I hear his laugh echo in every big boom. I miss him. He died in his sleep 23 years ago when he was in his early 30s — a loss that split my life into a distinctive before and after.
He was our no-holds-barred blaze of light that streaked across the night sky. And just like fireworks, his life sparkled with adventure and crackled with humor. Thrilling, joyous, and over far too fast.
But brevity doesn’t have to dampen impact. The finale of a fireworks show only lasts a few minutes, but the way it lights up the sky and overwhelms our senses is so memorable that we look forward to it again the very next year. The awe and wonder of it stays with us.
Can you picture it? The way rockets shoot straight up into the heavens, explode into bright blooms of color, and then fall gently back to earth in a cascade of glittering tails. Sounds like a special kind of magic, right?
Those fireworks guys knew it all along.
From my family to yours, Happy 4th of July.
Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her book is available on Amazon.
