A Toddler’s First Fourth – RedState

After all these years, I am just beginning to discern why this holiday memory endures so vividly: 

Public park. Large field. New Jersey. The dusk of a distant July 4^th.  The first for my first son. He was very excited. And by excited, I mean one of those hand-jiggling, jumping up and down, Oh-my-God-the-ice-cream-truck-is-coming excitements that’s way out of proportion to the event.

But such an innocent delight to witness. I was excited too. I had always loved fireworks. They were unusual events, arriving only annually, right after my birthday, in summertime darkness with my parents, who were immigrants. 

The surrounding crowd was there for the very same reason, though they may have been unaware of my birthday. Everyone was happy. The entire country was happy. Something big was about to happen. Everyone knew it. Not sure what. It was a little scary. But it was a good-scary.

My son was about two. So, the only thing he knew about Independence Day fireworks was that Dad was excited about Independence Day fireworks. We would happily attend many other fireworks together over the years.

But this was the first. The very first of anything with any child is maybe the most fun. They make for bonding rituals. Or they’re supposed to.

The first crawl, first step, first tickle. The first baby laugh that won’t stop. The first doggie lick. The first duck-feeding. The first ice cream. The first taste of so many new things, even pickles. The looks are priceless! 

I had talked up fireworks for days. “You’ll love it. Big beautiful things in the sky. And we’ll get some ice cream after.” Ice cream, he knew. Ice cream was pretty great. So fireworks must be good too.

The little boy spread out his own little blanket on the grass. He sat down. Positioned the teddy bear to see the show too, whatever this show was.

There’s an invisible excitement at such events. The crowd is growing. The buzz is too. Anticipation mounts. You can actually feel the excitement. 

Parents know what’s about to happen. Cluster bomb after cluster bomb exploding in colorful showers. The whistlers. The screamers. The colorful shower of sparks that explodes into another shower. And then another, so many colors. Loud, then suddenly gone. Of course, the collective oohs and aahs.

And then the rapid-fire finale with explosions going off everywhere in every direction and every imaginable color.

So, the adults are excited about the upcoming spectacle because they know what’s coming. And they’re excited to see the excitement of children who don’t know the spectacle is coming. 

The uncertainty, I think, is exciting for youngsters in a novel way. A little worrisome, maybe. But kids are all in, blindly, because the parents are all in. And, after all, mimicking is how they learn everything.

Then, of course, the darkness. Darkness anywhere makes everything more exciting, mysterious. 

Even in movie theaters, when the lights go down, it’s like a mood blanket, focusing the attention of everyone. Nothing, absolutely nothing, has happened yet. But the darkness delivers a layer of mystery and anticipatory excitement.

Even more so outdoors in a big place full of strangers. Everyone knows something special is coming. They can’t see it yet. But they know it’s there. Like a friendly monster in the closet or under the bed.

So, the little boy and the big boy sat there together, one on a blanket, the other on a blankie. In the grass. In the crowd. Waiting. 

But nothing happened. More waiting. It was dark already. Somehow, though, in that long waiting, it grew darker. The crowd fell silent. They knew. Or thought they knew.

Still nothing.

Truth is, darkness intensifies everything. After a long, long silence in the darkness, everything seems sudden. And loud. A whisper becomes a shout. And it’s oh-so sudden.

And then, it happened. 

Unheard by the crowd, an abrupt message crackled over the event radio. Unseen by the crowd, one of the volunteer firemen handling the lethal explosives touched a flare to a fuse. Four seconds later, came a surprisingly gentle “Thunk.” 

The mortar explosion launched an immense black projectile into the night sky. It was largely invisible to the crowd, save for a dim trail of sparks that quickly faded. The adults knew what was coming. But not the fireworks rookies.

Then, after maybe 10 seconds, hundreds of feet above in the dark sky, the black sphere detonated with an immense boom registered by every shirt in the crowd. 

No other explosions. No colors. No streams of fire. No screaming sparklers. Nothing else. Just a very large, mysterious boom announcing the start of the show. And darkness.

The toddler’s face was turned to the sky. His eyes wide open. His mouth even more so. Nothing came out of it.

The face turned toward his father. Who was smiling.

The little boy paused. He was buffering the moment’s events. They had been so highly touted by the Dad he had trusted. But the largest sound he had ever heard was no ice-cream truck. And there was nothing to see. 

Quickly, the youngster jumped up. 

“O.K.,” he said, snatching his blankie and teddy. “Yet’s go.”

This is the 33rd in an ongoing series of personal memories. Links to all the others are below.

Malcolm’s Memories: Train, Streetcars, and Grandma  

The True Story of an Unusual Wolf, a Pioneer in the Wild

That Time I Wore $15K in Cash Into a War Zone 

I Fell in Love With the South, Despite That One Scary Afternoon 

Wildfires I’ve Known 

More Memories: Neat People I’ve Met Along the Way 

Editor’s Note: We’re holding a BIG BEAUTIFUL SALE to celebrate the passage of the OBBB. President Trump’s agenda is moving forward — celebrate with us and support our reporting as we Make America Great Again. Use promo code POTUS47 to get 74% off your membership.