Drone Fireworks Show—a sign of the times

Drone Fireworks Show—a sign of the times

I’d seen the signs—“Celebrate Meridian”

Activities for the children, ice cream social, classic cars=all the things we’ve come to expect in small-town America. Drone fireworks show! Here’s something new.

Actually this is the future. While on the West Coast all fireworks are prohibited, no one wants to risk forest fire. Drone firework shows at least offer an alternative. Much safer too. No chance of someone blowing off their hand. No undetonated ordinances for children to discover.

Yet . . .

I waited at my usual spot: beneath the lights at the bank drive-thru situated on elevated crowd. In past years I was able to see the exploding colors hurled above the tree-line. I waited and waited. It got dark, it got late. Still no boom to kick things off. I continued to read in my lawn chair. Then . . .

It had started and I never knew—much like how electric cars can creep up on us without the rattle and hum of a motor to let us know they’re there. I looked up and there was a fuchsia and teal parrot, which morphed into a Spartan “Sparty” helmet, which flowed into an American flag proudly waving. Somehow the depictions reminded me of a giant lit-up billboard. Indeed, there were the words Celebrate Meridian!

Nothing was left up to the imagination, to caprice, to the occasional dud. It was all programmed.

Ones and twos. Digital. A series of switches. Soundless. Airless.

I missed the mayhem. I missed the abstract, the blossoms of random color. The opening sonic boom, the percussive blows to the chest and psyche, a sulfur blanket overhead, stinging eyes, the throat constricting. There was no crescendo, no grand finale, where all the stops come out and gunpowder fills the sky. The notion that anything can happen.

It was all just a bit prosaic, lacking in poetry, serendipity. More of a mission than a celebration. The sad part is: My grandson will likely think this is how fireworks is and always has been, instead of a sign of the times.