Up in Flames

At this moment, there are fireworks out the front window, out the back window, and off in the distance in all directions.  It's like living in Baghdad.  Or inside a bag of microwave popcorn.

November 5th is Bonfire Night, a grand tradition that dates from 1606 when the members of Parliament passed a law calling for a public celebration of Guy Fawkes' failed attempt to blow them up the year before.  (The Act also curried favor with King James by crediting him with guaranteeing continued peace and prosperity with the "plentiful progeny proceeding out of his royal loins").  The law was repealed about 200 years ago, but the the Brits love a good effigy burning, so on 5th November the populace still burn things in huge bonfires, and what they don't burn, they blow up.

This is my new favorite holiday.

Right now, there are at least five houses that I can see letting off fireworks.  The one out the front to the left is practically a professional display.  They have fast little ones, fairies streaking across the night sky.  They have big thumping ones, the kind you feel in your chest.  They have whistlers, and sparklers and big colorful bursts.  They've been going on for about ten minutes, and it's just so cool to sit in your living room with a mug of tea, a fat Brazilian guy in an Elvis suit staggering his way tunelessly through "Viva Las Vegas" on X Factor and fireworks out the front window.  You have to bear in mind, though, that we live in a pretty densely populated area, so I'm expecting one to come flying through the window at any minute.  Some are so close that I can actually smell them.  Bits of flaming debris are falling onto the roof of the house across the street.

The nice thing about fireworks in November is that they start early.  It's dark here by 6, so we ate an early dinner and at 5.30, set out for the local park with Michael (Caroline is at a friend's birthday sleepover).  It was a lovely evening, mild and cheery.  The heat from the bonfire tightened our eyelips and dried our lips from a hundred yards away.  We drank wine from plastic cups.  We chatted with friends.  We bought a kitschy light up toy for Michael, who ran around with his little mates.  While the fireworks were going off he sat on my shoulders and marveled at them in his innocent little boy voice.

Caroline and the party girls went to the park, too, and we ran into them afterwards.  It was odd, bumping into my daughter and her friends out on the town for the evening, watching her scamper off with them, grinning broadly, her parents forgotten.

She's growing up; growing out, molting again.  She's already left behind the baby that slept on my chest, the toddler that never slept at all, the little girl in pigtails with holes in her smile.  Now, a month shy of her ninth birthday, she's starting to shrug off her childish persona, starting to become a preteen.  We had a long conversation today about how good food should be an experience involving all five senses, and she understood what I was talking about.

I love watching her metamorphosis, and I love how she's turning out, but every change is bittersweet.