Chacos: What’s so special about a holiday in July?
The Fourth of July is the only holiday I tolerate being hot and sweaty from sunrise to sunset because there’s the promise of fireworks at its conclusion. The combination of gunpowder and burning chemicals takes me back to the shore of the Long Island Sound, where my brother and I “oohed” and “aahed” at the firework display put on from the boats strategically placed out on the water. My grandmother would line the kids up by the edge of the beach while we tried to pinpoint exactly where the razzle-dazzle and fuse of fire would commence.
My grandmother put a hot dog in one hand and placed a popsicle in the other to keep us occupied while she opened the delicate box of sparklers she bought weeks earlier. Then my grandfather would reach into his pants pocket and take out his lighter to ceremoniously anoint each of us with a lit sparkler of our own. We were instructed to hold tightly with both hands and not let go. For one minute, I was hypnotized as smelly smoke crept up the tendrils of my nose and lightning-bug sparks danced in front of my eyes.
We would crawl with excitement for the main show to begin while counting down 10, 9 , 8 … every time we saw movement out on the water. Once the first firework exploded and turned night into day, we tried to anticipate what would illuminate the sky next. Some blasted up like rockets and erupted into a bunch of little worms, while others looked like stars that dripped down all over the sky.
We were mesmerized. We even cheered at the long pauses and the occasional squealing dud. Long before the show was over, I yearned for more loud explosions as I held on tightly to my grandmother’s hand. I had fallen in love with the salty air and sticky popsicle sticks, booming sounds, and the fire-starters that bravely came out to give us their yearly, over-the-top display of indulgence.
When I moved to the mountains some many years ago, I didn’t realize that it was the big cities near large bodies of water that could afford to put on a 20-minute magic show. This is a luxury we don’t possess in western Colorado, forcing me to create my own Independence Day celebration instead. Although this day officially signifies when we ratified the Declaration of Independence, separating us from British rule, I subscribe to the more popular and ubiquitous cultural symbolism of the federal holiday. I choose to honor barbeque, creamsicles, and getting my hands on some good ol’ fashioned fireworks.
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For years, as July came into view, I scanned the side of the road for a libertarian-style fireworks stand or looked for someone selling black-market Roman candles from the trunk of their car. I’d gather friends with a secret pyrotechnic past, combine the fireworks we had been stockpiling, and find a volunteer to get more by taking a long road trip across state lines because Colorado has a ban on the good stuff like Bottle Rockets, Cherry Bombs, Mortars, and M-80s.
On July Fourth, we would barbeque until dark and then unabashedly set the neighborhood ablaze. We hoped our children were absorbing the reverence of the summer holiday as we grilled food and bowed toward the loud explosions. I made sure to pass down some of my grandparents’ sacred traditions by making sure my children always had a sparkler in hand, too.
Then everything about the climate changed. We’ve been forced to acknowledge the part we play in adding to greenhouse gases, wildfires, and poor air quality. Although I’d like to deny science because the nostalgic smell of fireworks fondly brings me back to my childhood, I know they release toxic and harmful gases like carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, nitrogen oxides, and sulfur dioxide.
Once the fireworks explode, these pollutants are released and then get trapped in the atmosphere, contributing to global warming while doing additional damage to human lungs. To make matters worse, arid climates like Colorado provide perfect conditions for accidental fires to spread rapidly and out of control, releasing even larger amounts of CO2 and other pollutants into the atmosphere. I can no longer set my neighborhood on fire in the name of fun or without a tinge of guilt for the harm they do to humans and our habitat.
The Fourth of July will always have a piece of my heart for its hedonistic indulgences and guilt-free hot dogs. I know my fiery ways are not acceptable anymore, but I want to ensure my children’s grandchildren have fond memories of the Fourth of July, too. I guess I’ll have to watch a parade, take in a laser-drone show, and pretend to burn the house down by getting my hands on some legal pop-its, ground spinners, and glow worms instead.
Andrea Chacos lives in Carbondale, balancing work and happily raising three children with her husband. She strives to dodge curveballs life likes to throw with a bit of passion, humor and some flair.
