Celebrating

Deep in the heart of coal country, there is a town that saw its heyday between the 1890s and the 1920s in the age when steel was big and its coal lit the fires that forged that ever-present metal. Today, the town still sits crammed between the mine-laced mountains, and there are still roadside businesses that sell some of the remaining black bounty to folks who still use it to heat their homes.

As you drive past the little coal sellers, you see a mountain on your left that upon closer look you notice is made of coal scraps. This 500-foot tall pile is the coal that was too sulfurous to be good for home use, and so it was set aside as it was mined. Too troublesome to be placed back in the bowels of the earth, it stands on top, a monument to the town's backbreaking labor.

The main street is dotted with parks of the type created in early 20th century America; little oases in the middle of a once-carriage driven road, they have a few trees and benches neatly placed for weary walkers. These patches of green along with the 1900s bank buildings that still reflect the once-prosperous architecture are the most elegant elements remaining in the town. They are nestled beside neon-signed nail salons and bars, autobody shops, and many boarded-up businesses that more accurately show the current state of the town. Many of the people residing there now are part of multi-generational welfare families who, when asked what they do for a living, will tell you, "I'm on disability." There are other folks who work an array of jobs that include highly educated occupations as well, but the main thrust of the economic ambiance remains one of poverty.

Even the houses seem a bit sad. Many are true centenarians, and you catch glimmers of a front porch culture that faded when television invaded our living rooms. The white paint on their facades is often besmirched with the black coal dust that still can permeate the air here. Yet, underneath their drooping exteriors, there is a sparkle of a happier time.

That sparkle takes shape and form and enters the streets twice a year. Once is Christmas when the smallest and saddest houses are often the most transformed. The folks who live there take great pride in pulling out all the stops with myriad Christmas decorations. The other time is the Fourth of July.

This little town, this area that seems to be in a permanent recession, puts on the greatest fireworks display that I have ever seen. That includes Boston, New York, and Washington D.C.

Every year that this town can scrape together enough funds to hold it, the firefighters climb up on that mountain of discarded coal and shoot off a truly impressive display. They never do it halfway. If the funds aren't there, they don't hold it at all. But if they manage to raise what must be $50,000 or more, they blow it all up in a truly spectacular celebration of our nation's independence.

As you drive into town on that night, you pass cars lined up for several miles along the sides of the road. People are already parked and pulling lawn chairs out of their trunks in the hopes of securing their favorite viewing spot. Just before you hit the main street, traffic slows and two firemen holding a giant trashcan greet you. "Care to donate to the fireworks?" they ask you, and you can't resist dropping in some cash in the hopes that your contribution just might enable next year's display.

My family parks in the lot of an old gas station with a clear view of the coal mountain. We usually happily grab the last spot in the place and then walk the five blocks or so to the eateries. Two women in their 60s run the Coney Island hot dog stand, which is a cramped little diner that looks like it's been there for a century. The women operate with the kind of automatic efficiency that is built over thousands of hours of doing the same thing. You can pick up your chili-and-onion-covered hot dog and chow down alongside other loyal patrons. My mom usually skips this part, choosing instead to save room for the homemade ice cream place just up the street. There, a double dip is $2.25, and plastic-topped cans are placed on the counter collecting tips for the workers and - what else - donations for next year's fireworks.

As you walk back the main street, you pass clusters of people delightedly kibbitzing as they sit in their lawn chairs in the small parks, all facing the coal mountain. They watch their kids run around and set off small fireworks or play with sparklers and snappers - gunpowder-filled paper twists that explode with a pop and an occasional spark when they hit the ground.

Meanwhile, houses all around the area are setting off their own fireworks. Some are so sophisticated that you wonder if the real display has started yet. But, no, it's just people showing off for the gathered crowds. You always see a daredevil stunt or two, like people standing on a rooftop and tossing a lit explosive off to the ground where it does a reverse firework and blows up with a bang. The laughter that ensues from the lucky folks who set the thing off is a mixture of giddy relief and an adrenaline rush. It's the same sound you hear when people come off a particularly fine roller coaster in an amusement park - the "Thank-God-I'm-alive-but-let's-do-it-again" giggles.

Keep walking, and you'll pass the soda machine that boasts the Nascar celebrity holding out a Coca-Cola bottle to tempt you. Everyone in this town will know who he is.

One abandoned gas station with the sign still up from the 1960s and a couple darkened buildings later, and you'll be back at the lawn chairs in the gas station parking lot, staring up at the darkening sky and wondering when the display will start.

Around 9:45 or whenever the crew judges that the charcoal backdrop is sufficiently dark to allow the fireworks to be seen in sharpest relief, there is an enormously loud explosion to signal the start of the half hour display.

With a soft "shhhhooot!", comet trails leap off the coal mountain into the sky where they burst into sophisticated patterns of light and color. There are gentle ones that look like gold filigree as they shimmer down. Others are enormous asterisks that turn red, then green, then white as you watch their tips. (These are the ones you more typically see in the larger cities.) Some create miraculous shapes that are precise rings with one dot outside of them or a Saturn-like picture complete with planetary rings. Every year, there also seem to be new ones, innovative concoctions that make you gasp as you wonder how someone could figure out how to multistage a firework - and then make the ends look like actual star shapes. And at regular intervals, the company sets off ones that flash brightly just before a huge BOOM fills the sky.

There isn't any music that would show fancy mathematical calculations as things explode with the drum beats, and I actually prefer that. Nothing distracts from the colorful majesty of these engineering marvels. You can focus only on how interesting and amazing the fireworks are, and they deliver.

The timing is also superb. The crew sets off a few at the outset, one by one so that you can enjoy them in their full splendor. There are specifically designed orders of launch so that a shimmering gold backdrop comes behind a star-like explosion or two stars explode just offset from each other. And every five minutes or so, there is a rapid firing that shows off a whole postcard-picture at once and leaves the sky filled with smoke and the audience wondering if that's the big finale.

The finale itself is really something to behold. By this point, the coal mountain is glowing orange at the launch point, and a true fountain of smoke is climbing into the sky. The final launch is a series of specially timed and positioned fireworks that explode right over your head, some with spans of several hundred feet in the sky. Everything is perfectly placed and perfectly timed, and when the last sparks fade into the black, the entire town erupts in cheers and applause that can be heard way up on that mountain, a burst of appreciation for those who risked so much to create this beautiful testament to the hardy American spirit and the celebration of the Fourth.

~Hope