That was the chant we school kids used to sing as we raced out of General Mercer Public School on the Friday before the first real long weekend of summer. Most families in the west end of Toronto where I grew up set off their own fireworks. For weeks we kids would study the fireworks possibilities at the hardware store, but in fireworks as in most areas of our lives, it was our fathers who made the final decision.
The 24th of May was the only day on which we set off fireworks, so there was a great deal riding on the choices our fathers made. If they chose exotic untried fireworks that fizzled and spun and expired without drama, the chorus of groans and wails that came from their grieving children would haunt their dreams for a full year. With that possibility hanging over their heads, it was little wonder that so many fathers were traditionalists who, year after year, went for the old reliables: rockets, Roman candles, spinners, star shooters and the ceremonial finish for all displays in my neighbourhood: the little red schoolhouse.
Sparklers were, of course, obligatory. So were mothers’ warnings that if we weren’t careful we would poke out our eyes or somehow manage to set ourselves on fire. We didn’t care. The thrill of running around with our sparklers waiting for the sky to get dark enough so we could finally light them, write our names in the air and set the whole wonderful evening in motion, was worth the risk.
Fathers don’t buy fireworks anymore. Mothers don’t issue warnings. There are still fireworks of course – large public displays whose timing is announced in our morning papers. Like everyone else in our city, my family and I troop off to watch the fireworks from a safe distance. The fireworks our city chooses are lavish and perfect. There are no duds. No disappointments. The effect of every whooshing rocket and shooting star is calibrated to lead us inexorably to the Big Bang. Like everyone else in the crowd, I oooo and I ahhhhh as the night sky lights up with the climactic explosion of colour and noise that marks the end of the evening. But I’m faking. I miss the little red schoolhouse.