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Tropical Depression: All Happy With Whistle
When I first moved to Hawaii fireworks were a barely regulated year-round industry.
(Ok so you needed a permit to shoot aerials and m-80s.) It was a black market get-them-from-my-brother's-friend's-cousin-who-works-for-Matson dream; prices were competitive and supply copious.
Cops just looked the other way most of the time either because you were related or, on the holidays, they were overworked responding to fire and property damage calls. While it lasted it was outrageous, ear-splitting, beer-drinking fun.
Each year the numerous injuries, escalating family feuds (who can be the loudest / brightest year after year) and fires would be in the headlines for days.
Each year the city and state would chip away at our right to light up the sky and burn down the house.
These days we buy the multi-packs of snappers, crackers and fountains at Costco, after getting a permit from the Satellite City Hall. Now the newspaper reports are of asthma attacks.
So. These days, we do our best.
Last night we lit the fountains:
Screaming Eagle, Witch's Crackle Broom, All Happy With Whistle.
And the Ground Blooming Flowers:
Plain, Crackling, and With Report.
(The sparklers for the little girls)
We created complex assemblages of GBFs taped to fountains and lit with sparklers to make a hot sparkling flaming mess.
There are still the neighborhoods that have cousins with connections. We occasionally spotted a well placed aerial (followed by a siren).
I drove home through neighborhoods full of smoke and GBFs darting across intersections thinking about the good old days.
