No Money to Burn

I fell into conversation with some friends at the Memorial Day parade recently. We made a special point of attending this year since my youngest son was marching with his Cub Scout pack. What our parade lacks in duration (don't blink!) it makes up for in community spirit. As my friends and I chatted, I commented on the number of people who had turned out for the parade and lamented the fact that this year's annual bonfire was cancelled due to budget concerns.

This was clearly the first time my friend had heard the news. As her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped, she said "What do you mean there's no bonfire this year?" As the sad news sank in, I empathized with her and reflected on just how different my emotions were from the first time I witnessed the bonfire.

Here's a bit of personal history. I hail from New Jersey, a place where the Fourth of July is celebrated with two events: The parade (which goes on for hours complete with blaring fire trucks from several surrounding towns) and our annual fireworks. Each year my parents would pack us into the car with blankets and snacks and drive to the local fairgrounds. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting (and listening to us kids whine, "When will it start? How much longer?"), the fireworks would commence with breathtaking intensity, followed by the requisite "ooohs" and "ahh's". When the last rocket was fired at the end of the grand finale and the cannon-like echoes faded away, we would all head home with the feeling that the Fourth of July had been properly commemorated. In central NY, my husband’s town celebrated in a similar manner, though on a smaller scale.

Upon moving to Hanover, my husband and I were surprised to learn that the town didn't celebrate July 4th with fireworks. Driving through town that first year, I noticed a sign that said "Bonfire Saturday" but didn't think much of it. It wasn't until our second or third year as residents that we finally decide to investigate.

Sitting on a blanket with our young son in tow, we watched as the fire department began to light the enormous pile of pallets. We both thought it odd that such a large fire should be lit so close to a school. As the flames grew to a roaring pyre, and the baking heat reached all the way to our blanket, my husband and I looked at each other and it was clear that we both had the same thought: "What the hell?"

Instead of the majesty of fireworks we felt like we were dropped into some pagan ritual straight out of a Shirley Jackson story (and if you've never read her short story "The Lottery" you owe it to yourself to check it out.) Kids were running around in the firelight, adults were laughing and joking. I could only imagine what passing airplanes must have thought. When we'd had our fill of the heat and smoke, we packed up our child and our blanket and headed home. "That was weird," I commented to my husband, who agreed.

And yet, we returned to the bonfire the next year, this time with a group of friends and their children. Somehow it seemed less bizarre when shared with others. It's been ten years now since we moved to Hanover, and for most of those years, we've faithfully attended the bonfire. And while it still strikes me as an unusual way to celebrate the beginning of summer, I realized that the bonfire is less about pyromania and more about spending time together as a community.

When I discovered that the bonfire had been cancelled this year due to budget cuts, I was surprised by the intensity of my disappointment. Was there a way to find funding for the event? Perhaps a corporate sponsor? How about the Taco Bell Bonfire? (It’s muy caliente!) Or maybe I could do a little digging and find a government grant? I'm sure someone would like to perform a sociological study on community gatherings and the impact of fireworks versus fiery pallets. No?

Sigh. Perhaps the economy will improve next year and our town will be back to its old torchy ways. In the meantime, we'll just have to resign ourselves to the fact that until things get better, we just don't have money to burn.