Fireworks

There is something about fireworks that draw me in. I’m not an "aahhhh-er" or an "oohhhh-er" as fireworks light up the night sky but I really enjoy watching them explode, unfold, disintegrate and float away. It doesn’t matter the kind, or whether they’re huge, multicoloured starbursts, shooting stars with long colourful tails, the kind that drip and weep as they crackle into extinction, or the white flashes that just go “boom.”

I watch silently, somewhat awestruck, impressed, I think at the relatively safe but powerful force of it all.

When I was a child, we could buy recreational fireworks at the corner store. I was not allowed to buy the rockets that shot into the sky and exploded, or the twirling pinwheels - too dangerous - but my parents saw no problem, providing I followed the rules and didn’t throw them at anyone or anything, with the smaller strings of red firecrackers, the kind powerful enough to cause severe burns or blind an eye, but probably not strong enough to remove a finger.

Lighting each one and watching it go “Bang!” got a little monotonous so we experimented. We blew up piles of leaves and sometimes had to stomp out the fires that started as a result; we dropped them down sewer grates and listened for the echoing bang, but the most fun was to light several as quickly as we could, and place them in a can. Seconds later the can would fly into the air on a probably more unpredictably dangerous path than well-aimed rockets.

Then, alas, these small-scale fireworks were taken off the market because too many people had managed to do damage to themselves and others by hanging on too long and being burned or possibly by being struck by flying cans. A person needed a permit and an occasion to purchase fireworks. From then on I had to be happy with watching planned displays.

Most fireworks watching requires spending time on a surprisingly chilly evening and being insect bait for the millions of nasty mosquitoes that hang around waiting for unsuspecting fireworks watchers not dressed in jeans, socks, and long sleeved hoodies to expose bare flesh and provide a late-night meal. The actual viewing experience requires shivering, swatting, flapping and slapping, and, if you are really close and lucky, keeping hot little embers from burning holes in your clothes and/or skin. Still, I'm enthrawled.

I’ve never seen a huge explosion – not, thank goodness, explosions resulting from acts of terrorism or war where bombs rip buildings, bodies, families and nations apart or explosions caused by gas leaks or other combustibles that cause great damage, so maybe my fascination with things that go boom is naïve.

I was once told that had I witnessed unplanned and horrifying explosions, my fascination for fireworks would be quickly squelched but I'm not so sure. My curiosity doesn't extend to horrific details or how fireworks are made or what actually makes them work. I only want to watch in awed silence as the sky lights up with spectacular but safe bursts of colour and noise.

Lily

Lily is growing up – six months old already. Her most endearing personality traits are her enthusiasm for anything tasty and her hound instincts. She’s a mooch and unlike other finicky doggie eaters we’ve known who hack up anything spicy, savoury, or heck, sometimes even toast, Lily seems to have guts of steel. 

Not that this is a good thing. I wish she was more discriminate. Because dachshunds have such long bodies, added weight is unusually hard on their backs so we want to keep her as slim and trim as possible. Nevertheless, she’s right there, under the table at mealtimes, especially when the boys are here, scooping up any tasty crumbs that come her way and begging for anything we might be inclined to share if she stares long and hard enough at it.

Outside she eats grass, flowers, mulch, twigs – anything she can wrap her lips around. This is not a good thing either, especially when combined with her hound instincts. She snuffles around in the grass, in the flower beds and under the trees. So far she’s come up with two dead mice and at least half a dozen dead sparrows. So far she hasn’t tried to eat them, but instead brings them to me. Blegh.

At first I wondered where the dead critters were coming from but soon realized that with the amount of bird feeders, and the amount of birds that visit over the winter, it stands to reason that the odd one would succumb to the cold or old age in our yard. The same with mice living under the mulch and also eating the bird seed. We didn’t know we had mice living nearby – I guess it’s okay if they don’t come in the house! The old and frozen ones crept under the bushes and expired and we were none the wiser. However, Lily sniffs out the bodies and makes a gift of them.

She also thinks she’d like to catch a live bird. Today, the baby sparrows from one of the birdhouses flew the coop. I’ve been expecting this to happen as I’ve been watching their little beaks get bigger and more impatient as the parent sparrows brought food.

Anyway, I didn’t realize they were out until this afternoon when Lily spotted a baby in the middle of the yard. I don’t know if she would have hurt it or picked it up and brought it to me because the mamma bird was right there, flapping and squawking around Lily’s head. Lily immediately took after her (that’s the point, right?) and followed her half way across the yard in the opposite direction while the baby bird jumped, flopped, flapped and scrambled to the safety of the nearest flower bed.

Later tonight, when Lily and I went out, she sniffed out every inch of the area she covered chasing the mother bird. She didn’t go the other way and look for the babies. The mamma did a good job. There are at least three baby sparrows and one baby robin hiding somewhere out there in the garden. I hope they learn to fly and fend for themselves soon before Lily realizes she’s been duped.