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Back then

firecrackers popped all day long.

Anyone could buy them at the drug store,

along with caps for your pistol,

and black pellets that, when lit,

curled into snakes.

Stores, many draped in American flag, closed,

and until noon or so, a dog could

lie down in the middle of Main Street

without fear of being run over

by anything except a bicycle

papered in red, white, and blue crepe.

In the afternoon, relatives got together

or families drove to the beach

or attended a baseball game

between neighboring town teams.

Back then

after supper, many folks drove

over to John Rizzoli’s for fireworks.

A large man with a big smile and cold eyes,

John had immigrated here after WWI,

becoming, rumor had it,

“Al Capone’s man in Maine,” during Prohibition.

He and his eight or ten sons,

now legally supplied the state with beer:

Budweiser,

Schlitz,

Pabst,

and Narragansett

(“Nasty-Ganset,” my grandfather, who lived on the stuff, called it).

“Thank-a-full for what this-a country

give-a me,” once a year, John opened his garage,

moved out his Cadillacs, put in a bar,

and sold red, white, and blue dixie cups of his wares

prior to shooting off the fireworks.

Back then

as the sun set over the field behind the Rizzoli’s

families spread blankets.

While their children in shorts

and Keds and Davy Crocket caps

played cowboys and Indians

and shot off more firecrackers,

women, wearing bright lipstick and checkered dresses,

their hair curled, courtesy of Toni or Lilt,

visited each other,

comparing kids,

their new washing machines and dryers,

the cost of pine-paneling their rec rooms.

Men, clean-shaven with crewcuts, many in white shirts and gabardine pants,

visited John’s garage,

complained about the Red Sox,

argued the merits of the new Fords, Chevys, Dodges, and Hudsons,

swapped war stories and dirty jokes.

Teenagers in jeans stood around the edges of the field

bragging about their new “Hi Fi” record players,

arguing who kicked more ass, Elvis or Jerry Lee,

wondering who was going all the way,

while single men in overalls and slouch hats, stood against the garage

bitching about

taxes,

teenagers,

the new interstate through-way.

Back then

somewhere close to 9:00 p.m.

when it got completely dark,

men returned to their families

and a holy hush fell over the field.

Flashes of fireflies, like votive candles,

lit the night.

The smell of cigarette, cigar, and pipe smoke

wafted like incense.

As someone started singing, “God, Bless America,”

dixie cups were passed.

Suddenly, light and noise filled the sky—

rockets’ red glares, bombs bursting in air—

and sounds of a collective “Aahhh”

rose into the heavens,

as we worshipped the American Dream.

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