Festival of Lights

Every time we drive to Michigan, we pass though the “Firework Zone.” Two massive structures bookending the highway that scream at us about their mental stability and low prices. I’m always vaguely disappointed they aren’t on fire when we pass if only to keep the kids from begging for fireworks. 

We always vaguely argue, “It’s not even 4th of July,” which works exactly 51 weeks out of the year. And this year it bit us in the butt. The boys cashed in their chips and we found ourselves in front of the big white crazy explosive building and not the big red crazy explosive building.

Diana went in with the boys because I could not be trusted. It was determined by all parties that I would get conned into buying the “Thumb Remover 2000” and not even the boys wanted that responsibility. I was on Jerry duty. While the rest of the family shopped, we had an adventure exploring the fried chicken trailer in the parking lot. 

They emerged with their loot and Luca shouted, “A hundred dollars!” in an attempt to make me angry. Elijah was mortified because Diana dared ask an employee for help. She also asked for the “safest” fireworks they sold, and Eli was sure the teen would follow us all the way to the cabin and give us each a wedgie while shouting, “Haw haw!”

The majority of the ‘works were of the “snake” variety. You know that little disk you light and then it poops out carbon in the shape of a snake? We got a bunch of those, a bunch of sparklers, and some smoke bombs. 

But the real spectacular was the “Festival of Lights.” The giant box didn’t seem to celebrate the Tirthankara (savior) Mahavira's attainment of nirvana, but we all agreed it would make a nice finale to our Michigan trip. 

Leading up to the “Festival,” I had consumed enough beer to lose a bit of my Hamann-ness and enjoyed both the fire and the works. I also had the Uber Hamann, Luca, with us who poured thousands of gallons of water over each and every spent item. Soon our driveway was a mess of soggy cardboard and soot. Luca would also scream, “RUN!” every time a wick was lit, so our thumbs were pretty safe.

Then it was “Festival” time. We were giddy with excitement and Michigan IPAs. Just as we flicked our BIC, the neighbors started their fireworks display. The forest lit up as hundreds of pounds of TNT erupted. It was spectacular and dangerous and loud. Jerry decided that under the cabin was a perfectly reasonable place to live out the rest of his days.

We didn’t have to search for the “Festival” wick because it was as bright as midday. It ignited and was noticeably anemic compared to the warzone next door. It sizzled little fountains of sparks and pops and smoke. But it was all ours. 

And it was glorious.