Once upon a time, my Florida townhouse was across the bay from the end of the Tyndall AFB runway, and there were many (many, many, many) days and nights when I thought I was going to have company drop in.
I threw my
After the parade, we went home to stuff ourselves on grilled burgers and toxic tubes of mystery meat (aka hot dogs), and then set out to help set up for the fireworks show later that night. It was a fascinating peek behind the scenes for me.
The fireworks arrive in boxes (made in China by political prisoners as my Dad would always say), and so we unpacked and unwrapped what were essentially small bombs with long fuses. They were sorted into 32-gallon trash cans by size in three to eight-inch diameters. By the time we were finished, we had ten of those cans filled ~ a surprising amount of fireworks and that wasn't even counting the boxes and tubes of the grand finale fireworks.
I didn't have any interest in blowing anything up ~ especially myself ~ so opted to sit and watch from a "front row" seat. David, however, was right in the middle of the action, helping to load and fire some of them.
It was almost like having a private show since there wasn't anyone else watching from that end of the ore dock except for some very annoying mosquitoes (may they rest in peace). Eventually, I moved a little farther back because my neck was getting sore from looking directly overhead for the first part of the show, and I was worried about getting burned by some of the embers when a few didn't burn out before hitting the water or the ore dock.
It was an amazing show, and oddly enough, relaxing as I lay on my back, ear plugs in, watching the fireworks.