Fireworks

“The idea of waiting for something makes it more exciting.”

When I was growing up in the late 1960s and early 1970s, we lived in a tiny 1,200-square-foot twin home on a quiet street in Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania. Most of the homes in our neighborhood had been bought by veterans returning from World War II. They settled down, started families, and created a community where everyone knew each other. Kids played freely in the streets, rode bikes up and down the block, and spent long summer afternoons in each other’s homes, watching TV, sharing snacks, and telling secrets that only ten-year-olds could understand.

Every year on the Fourth of July, our parents organized a block party in the alley behind our house. It was the highlight of the summer: laughter echoing off the brick walls, the smell of grilled hot dogs and hamburgers mingling with the faint tang of charcoal smoke, and all the kids running wild, playing tag and trying not to get caught in a spontaneous water balloon fight. But Dad promised us something extra special that year.

He said he had a surprise planned for when it got dark. He wouldn’t tell us what it was, but the way he grinned and twinkled his eyes told us it was going to be big. Really big. His only instruction? We had to sit quietly on the blankets he laid out in the alley, ten feet from the mysterious bundle he’d been setting up, and watch without moving or talking.

No running around, no distractions. Just patience.

As dusk crept over the rooftops, we shuffled onto the blankets, our hearts thumping in anticipation. The air was warm, filled with the mingled scents of barbecue and grass, while fireflies blinked lazily in the fading light. Crickets chirped in the background, but their song seemed to quiet as our excitement built. The sky above was a deepening canvas of navy blue, flecked with the first timid stars. Every sense seemed heightened. Even the smallest spark or shadow felt like the start of something magical.

Dad was unusually serious. He paced near the mysterious bundle, making sure we were all seated properly, his eyes glinting in the dim light. He told us repeatedly that the best fireworks shows were the ones where you noticed everything, where every flicker and spark mattered. “This is a big deal,” he said, with that playful wink of his, “so don’t take your eyes off it for a second.”

We tried to stay calm, but the excitement made us fidget. Our imaginations ran wild. What could be under the tarp? It was large, heavy, oddly shaped. Bits and pieces poked out, teasing us with glimpses of the unknown.

Finally, the last light of the sun vanished. Dad pulled the tarp away with a dramatic flourish. Gasps erupted from the kids. There it was: a massive firework, bigger than anything we had ever seen. It was long and thick, straight out of a cartoon—a stick that looked like something Wile E. Coyote might have tried to use to outsmart the Road Runner.

Dad performed a careful inspection, checking every angle as if it were the centerpiece of a grand festival. “Now, wait for it…” he whispered, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. We leaned forward on our blankets, barely breathing. “This is going to be the one,” he promised, and we believed him.

He struck a match and touched the fuse. It sputtered and hissed, sending sparks like tiny comets into the air. “Wait for it!” he called again, his voice a mixture of suspense and excitement. We were completely hypnotized. The world shrank to that single glowing point, our eyes fixed, our imaginations painting the explosion we knew was coming.

The firework glowed bright red and yellow, spitting sparks like a miniature sun. Cheers erupted from us all. But instead of a skyful of dazzling color, it stubbornly sputtered and glimmered like a dying campfire.

“Here it comes! Wait for it!” Dad shouted every few seconds, more excited and frantic with each iteration. But nothing spectacular happened. The firework fizzled, sputtered, and faintly smoked, as if it were gathering courage it would never find.

Twenty minutes passed. Twenty minutes of wide-eyed anticipation, silent suspense, and barely contained laughter as we all waited for the promised grand finale. Finally, with a meek little pop, it went out.

The alley fell silent. Dad shrugged, a half-amused, half-nonchalant expression on his face. “Oh well. I guess it must’ve been a dud.”

We stared at each other, bewildered. That was it? Was that the moment he had hyped up for weeks? Heads sagged, shoulders slumped, disappointment thick in the summer air. “Maybe next year,” my younger brother muttered, trying to inject some humor into the gloom.

Then I overheard one of the neighbors laughing as he chatted with Dad: “That was the best idea to keep these kids still for twenty minutes I’ve ever seen, Dom!”

It clicked, years later, as the memory settled into its rightful place: we hadn’t watched a firework at all. It was an ordinary road flare. My father, with meticulous planning and perfect timing, had orchestrated the ultimate prank: twenty minutes of suspense, curiosity, and wonder, all while we stared at a sputtering, ordinary flare.

I felt a mixture of amazement, mild betrayal, and pure delight. Classic Dad—always clever, mischievous, and one step ahead of the game. Looking back now, I can’t help but smile. Not only had he kept us all transfixed for twenty minutes, but he had done it in a way that entertained, taught patience, and created a memory that has lasted for decades.

Good one, Dad. You definitely had us all fooled.