It never got dark soon enough. Starting as early as the day before, we began waiting for nightfall on Firecracker Day. That’s what we called it at my house, though others called it Dominion Day. (For years I tried to figure out how it was connected to the grocery store down the road.) And now it’s called Canada Day. But the name doesn’t matter as much as the night itself.
In the mid-60s, the fireworks celebrations in town were held at Coronation Park. All went well until the year a spark got into the stockpile of fireworks. There was a magnificent display while people ran for safety, scooping up children and possessions. It was many years before the celebrations were held there again.
In the meantime, it was up to families to celebrate on their own. I remember, as we waited for the darkness, that our parents gave us hand-held sparklers to take outside. Our father lit them, and around we spun in circles, our arms making crazy loop-de-loops, the flowing tip of sparks leaving a brief trail in the air. By dusk, the almost-dark of the evening, we began to grow impatient, to whine, to plead, to despair that night would never come. But it always did.
We sat on the front lawn with our mother, huddled close against the veranda steps, while our father took the fireworks one at a time to the end of the driveway, lit the fuse, and scurried back to watch with us. Breathless, we watched as the sky burst in colour.
It seems to me that fireworks then had more interesting shapes than they do now. I like the ones we have now, but they all seem variations on a theme – circles. What I remember are circles and rockets and stars and, best of all, the little red school house. It was shaped, before being lit, like a one-room school, and covered in red paper. I am no longer certain of the shape it took when it went off, but I know that it was a favourite of my brothers, older than I and already cynical about education.
One year, the night was hot and steamy. My brothers and I were experimenting with sparklers and my father was setting up at the end of the driveway. It was not yet fully dark. Down the road we could see a man and his small daughter walking along the sidewalk. They headed straight for our house, approached my father, and chatted with him. Then they came onto the lawn to join us. The man sat, said hello to my mother. We gave the girl a sparkler and played as we waited for the show to begin. I remember we had never met them before, never saw them afterwards, but that it did not seem strange for such things to happen. It was the way things were done then.
Eventually, fireworks became harder to buy, my parents more cautious about mounting their own displays. For a few years, we traveled to Burlington to watch their works. Finally, Canada Day came back to Oakville. By then I was old enough to go with my friends, and we fought the crowds at Coronation Park to catch a glimpse of the colours. The noise was loud, the parking horrendous, the traffic afterwards hectic. And it was fun. But after a few years, I found that I could see the displays almost as well from my front porch. So that’s what I do now, as I grow staid.
I still like the fireworks displays, circles and all. But something is missing. The breathless anticipation is gone, certainly, but it’s more than that. It’s the small town feeling of having neighbours sit on the lawn with you, of watching your dad control the magic that lights the sky. It’s knowing the real name is not Firecracker Day.
Judy Wedeles
Oakville Today, June 29 1989
