Fireworks: Jane's Take

"Fireworks"

In this age of isolating information gleaned from the internet, I found at least three locations for viewing fireworks in the Portland area on the 4th of July. At least two of these were not in biking distance (at least by the time the sun was supposed to be down around 10:05 p.m.), so I ended up going down to the eastbank esplanade to watch the fireworks for the Blues Festival.

I recall that my first visit to Portland was around this time last year. My experience at the Blues Festival was that of sunburn and calling it an early night before seeing the fireworks. I could certainly at least hear the booms all the way on 30th and Hawthorne from the hostel porch.

This year was surprisingly cloudy, at least during the day. Then again, it's almost tradition to have it rain on the 4th of July. Filled with a barbecue pulled-pork sandwich made in my crock pot and a slice of pizza I had while hanging out with Heather, I biked along my usual route to work. Traffic, both pedestrian and motor, had become a bit more crowded and chaotic than I was used to.

A faint sliver of moon stapled the black of night and the fading blue light of day together, almost distracting me from the road and out of the bike lane. I also couldn't help but see the groups of smiling people lining the sidewalk.

My first obstacle was the police blockade on Hawthorne bridge. The bridge was up, but I had no idea that they wouldn't let people on the bridge at all. So, I got off my bike and pushed it alongside a bunch of pedestrians migrating under the overpass to the eastbank esplanade.

I don't know what it is about fireworks. Even if I don't really "celebrate" the 4th of July and what it supposedly stands for, I always try to watch the fireworks. Even on non-4th festivities, fireworks just make an otherwise mundane event into something magic.

Most of the people around me were families with children and amorous couples. I recall my parents dragging me out to Lincolnfest every year in Springfield (before they stopped having it due to budget issues or something), eating our fill in elephant ears, funnel cake, and other fried goodies, then watching the fireworks from the parking lot of our church. Then was the band trip to Disney World, where my freshman self ached for someone to give my first kiss to under the Millennium Festival fireworks.

Sophomore and Junior year summers were the summers of hanging out with Ian and loitering anywhere they wouldn't kick us out. Junior year, we had tried to sneak into the party at the lake without paying, but got caught by the rent-a-cop security, resulting in us having to pay the $3 like everyone else. Then we had to find a good spot, considering the crowd, but some asshole Eagle Scout kid (Do they have "Rent-a-Cop Security" badges in Boy Scouts?) told us we couldn't go any further around the lake since there was "danger of falling debris or something ridiculous like that.

We were able to sneak over to this large piece of construction machinery (I think it was a backhoe or a bulldozer) and lay on top of a flat piece overlooking the lake right where the pyrotechnics floated on a barge. Our spot was unobstructed and far enough away from the crowd where we wouldn't have to listen to really bad music.

It was also completely secluded. I remember teasing Ian about it a couple years after he moved back to New Mexico where if he had wanted to make a move on me, he should have done it then. For one thing, we were so close to the fireworks, I had the rather disorienting feeling of being pulled up to the sky as opposed to watching something falling on me from the sky.

No. We were not on drugs that night. The view was just that awesome.

Senior year was a different story. I had my first actual boyfriend, one who met my parents and friends. I still don't think I'm at liberty to talk about what exactly happened under the fireworks that 4th of July. Maybe some things are best kept secrets, even if thinly veiled.

The college years seemed too busy, so I don't remember if I had taken time out of my summer job schedule and general malaise to allow myself to be dazzled again. The year I graduated though was the year I finally cut loose. My friend Carly took me with her to her current boyfriend's house for beer and firework-watching from the roof. The view was partially blocked by trees, but it was still a very nice night.

Of course, I've digressed again.

However, I always try to think of things currently or recently happening to me in terms of other events in my past. I don't really think of my life as a straight line but a series of loops, like a coil, where parts of the line run parallel with each other.

The time around when Ian and I were sneaking around the lake, or when Dan and I were spreading a blanket under a willow tree was right around the time I was looking for a place to park my bike. I briefly considered a lamppost, except it was a wide post with an even wider concrete base.

A couple of guys reassured me, "Don't worry, no one's gonna steal your bike." For some reason, that did not put me at ease. One of the guys suggested hoisting the bike up onto the concrete platform, which I ended up doing. For one thing, it was under a lamppost and the occasional glance behind me from the esplanade would let me know if it was still there.

The spot I picked to stand was some sort of metal sculpture, like a pillar, but more like a skinny pyramid. I leaned back against it and recalled all the times I wished a boyfriend-type figure would be there for me to lean on. Glancing around, I could see couples already starting to make out despite the presence of little kids running around.

I looked at my cell phone, 10:07 p.m.. It was still faintly light in the sky over the West Hills. They would probably give it a couple more minutes before starting.

The building in front of me had an oddly-pitched roof and "PFD" on the side. I figured having a fire department right next to the river was a strange place, but then I remembered every historical movie I saw where people were running from a great fire into the nearest body of water. For some reason, the location of the fire department made sense to me after that, so I didn't bother considering it again. Now that I think about it again, nothing about my stream of thought made any sense at all last night.

After a few klaxons and foghorns, the show began. We could hear the crowd at Riverside Park on the west bank of the river cheering. The blasts started off slowly, but built up in a wild staccato frenzy of pops, crackles and other things you won't find in your morning cereal, like heart-pounding booms. The air filled with smoke, creating a haze which made the fading points of colored light seem even larger.

There were the usual chrysanthemum blooms of red, green, orange, blue. Bright yellow-white rockets shot up in the air only to arc and fade as they fell. My favorite had to be the yellow lights that spread like the usual circular bloom, but without such symmetry. There would be a series of explosions, setting off another set of lights to fly out, not quite like a Fibonacci sequence. It looked more like a battle seen from a great distance in space.

Or, for the more pacifistic, fireflies chasing each other.

I idly wondered if the blind could enjoy fireworks. Even if there's just the ability to tell the difference between light and dark, that combined with the percussive sounds, the rich smell of smoke and feeling a warm glow against one's face might be enough to entertain. Either that, or would be enough to be a bother to someone with heightened senses.

Children screamed, not in fear, but in delight. The couples were all leaning against each other. I occasionally turned from my spot on the pillar to glimpse the show that the West Bankers had a better view of, sometimes wondering if they purposely gave the paying crowd a better show. Still, from where I stood, it was wonderful.

I considered what fireworks are. First and foremost, they are explosives. Not a year goes by you don't hear about some horrific accident where a barge explodes too early and kills the operator, or some kid who blows off his hand with an M-80. I'm not sure what to think of something usually used to destroy to create art. Sometimes I like it and think that this is the only reason explosions should be used. Other times, it scares me to consider that somewhere on the other side of the world, children hear booms like this, see the sky light up and feel not a sense of wonder, but terror. Then I think that it's not fair for me to be standing in awe, to be enjoying myself when others are potentially suffering.

Despite my usual melancholic reflections, I still enjoyed myself. I figure my thoughts were certainly better than my teenage angstings about wishing someone was there with me. Come to think of it, I think this was the first time I went to watch the fireworks alone. Well, of course, I wasn't really alone, being surrounded by a good deal of Southeast-side Portland.

I started biking out of there to avoid the crazy traffic of cars trying to maneuver their way out of peculiar spots beneath the overpass. I almost wiped out when my tire caught on a bit of uncovered and unused streetcar railing. The save was so smooth (despite my keys falling out of my pocket and me shouting "HOLY CRAP!"), I wish someone had seen it. I recall passing under another overpass to hear a bunch of guys singing "America" followed by on the way home, hearing of all things, "Coming to America" by Neil Diamond. Most likely, it was a hipster party. I think I could smell PBR and vintage clothing all the way from the street.

My digs at hipsterdom aside, I couldn't help but be infected by the overall sense of good feelings that surrounded me last night. I had an IBC Root Beer per Midwestern tradition and called it a night not too long after.

To my surprise, I wasn't kept up all night by neighbors shooting off bottle rockets, m-80s, black cats or anything else. It seems that the Portland politeness extends to holidays as well. I think the last explosion I heard was around 1:00 a.m.