Florida: Fireworkin’ It

Since I finally have some time to breathe, I wanted to post this older post from my trip to Florida. Enjoy!

After crossing off all my to-do’s in NYC, JetBlue shuttled me down to the land of oranges, Disney and old people: Florida. I love me some sunshine — to which my nicely browned skin can attest — but I love my grandfolks even more. Every year since I was a wee little colleen — yep, my name means “girl” in Celtic; if I were Spanish, I’d be “Chica” — I visited my Grammy, Grampy, Coci and Uncle Don twice per year without fail. Even whiny adolescence couldn’t prevent me from lighting up in their presence. Sadly, now Grammy and Uncle Don have passed on. But Gramps and Coci still bristle with energy and jokes, and, of course, stories I’ve heard a thousand times. Now you all know where I get it from.

Gramps took a spill right before I jetted abroad and broke his hip. But this wasn’t the typical old guy fall; he tripped over a hook for the pool while out cleaning up the backyard. A spirited gentleman of his mid-80s, Grampy is incredibly agile for his age, the biggest problem being his faulty hearing that results in “Murder, She Wrote” being blasted at probably illegal decibel levels. Most men his age would be warned against surgery for fear of complications. His doctor said he’d be stupid not to have it. This is his second hip replacement, on top of two knee replacements. Yes, my grandfather is halfway to becoming a robot.

And then there’s Coci. It’s pronounced “Chuh-chee,” and is some bastardized version of the Polish word for aunt, which, consequently, I’ve never learned. My mother started calling her this when she was a wee little colleen herself, and it stuck. If I got one ounce of the sense of humor Coci spouts, I could make a mint on “Last Comic Standing.” She has me in stitches every time we meet, an effect that is also felt by the many, MANY people she knows in their community of Satellite Beach. Coci is actually Grampy’s sister-in-law; she and her husband, my Uncle Don, had moved down into the house with my Gram and Gramps back in 1980, and after Uncle Don and Grammy passed, they stayed to help each other out.

We ventured down for the Fourth of July and were greeted by a huge party featuring more ribs than an anorexia convention (I know that was so very wrong, but the metaphor was too ripe not to use). Before the event, however, Sean — also known as the 13-year-old trapped in a grown man’s body — started bugging me about fireworks.

Lots of things are legal in Florida that are illegal elsewhere: Drinking on the beach, carrying your gun to work … and fireworks. Around the Fourth, fireworks prove more ubiquitous than mullets (probably because most of the mullets are off the streets and shopping at the fireworks stands). Walmart’s got a tent. Publix has a stand. But no, these set ups were too small for Seanboy. He wanted himself some big ole things to blow up, and for that we had to venture to a fireworks warehouse.

Right off I-95 near Cocoa looms a makeshift hanger surrounded by pick-ups and American flags. This is where you come for the big guns … and even bigger rockets. As I pulled up, I could only imagine the spectacle that would result if some pyro were let loose here. That would epitomize going out with a BANG.

Inside, the aisles were jammed with people of all ages stuffing extra large carts with sparklers and smoke bombs and roman candles and whistling rockets. I was less amazed by the sheer quantity of explosives housed in this arena than the number of fireworks people were stockpiling for themselves. You’d think Floridians were ready to start their own mini revolution with the masses of firepower they were hauling home. A friendly clerk told me everything was 2-for-1. Great! Even more things to explode! Toto, I don’t think we’re in Massachusetts anymore.

The mullet and sleeveless T factor was high, the excitement to blow things up palpable. My boyfriend definitely suffered from the latter, grabbing at an array of crazily named fireworks regardless of contemplating exactly how we would light these off in my grandfolks’ quiet, suburban neighborhood. After wandering wide-eyed between the swirly sparklers and multi-colored bursting rosettes, we settled on two packs of small whistling rockets and two “variety packs.” I was just happy everything we picked was on the small side. Witnessing children as young as two years-old explode “hanabi” — Japanese fireworks — left me a bit scarred and scared. But I knew it would be fun. Right?

After the ribs, jokes, a great game called LCR and dessert, Sean and I set out to set up. In the end, it was a great show and a lovely time. Small fountains spraying sparks into the darkened street, sparklers lining the sidewalk and nary a dud appeared in the bunch. The rockets were a bit disappointing, simply whizzing into the sky without ever blooming with light. But no one got hurt and no police showed up. That’s a success in my book!

After the show out in front, we brought the remaining fireworks into the backyard to treat Grampy to a private exhibition. It was a wonderful and special way to spend a Fourth of July with some of my favorite people on this earth.

Sean left a few days later, and the rest of my visit, though less exciting, was filled with lots of activity: shopping, eating, reading and fishing. Ah, retirement. I think it’s something I might be good at … eventually, of course.

[08.07.03] Florida