It’s about four p.m. when I give up searching for good country (American music for an American holiday) on the car radio. Instead, I attempt harmonizing to Owl City’s “Fireflies.” It’s somewhat thematically pertinent to the Fourth of July: fire. And if all goes well, it should fly. Such are my musings as I begin my brief gig as a peddler of pyrotechnics in the grand Fillmore tradition.

I pull into the dusty lot across from the Tipsy Fox where the ladies of the Fillmore Women’s Service Club have been busy with sales all day—and all week, in fact. It’s an advantageous location, one of the first booths on the eastbound Highway126. Customers perusing wares and placing orders.

When I enter the long white booth from the back door, Mimi Burns, a former president of the club, greets me. She quickly reviews procedures, and within moments I’m set to work along with the five other volunteers helping customers make their selection of flammable goodies.

Some folk know exactly what they want, referring to fireworks by name and leaving as suddenly as they arrive, while others linger to study the bright red product flyers with varying degrees of scrutiny. Some let their children choose within a set budget, and others simply ask us for suggestions.

There’s a something to be said of people’s taste in explosives. I recall from a past year a surprisingly handsome tattooed fellow whose attraction quotient plummeted when he gleefully purchased a load of the aptly named TNT Blasts to set off in his neighborhood expressly to harass his neighbors. On the other hand, it’s heartwarming to see families on their way to Independence Day celebrations. It’s impossible not to smile when dads seek out “what might be fun for the kids.” The classic sparklers, Morning Glories, are a big hit.

Between waves of intensely busy periods of rushing around with calculator and credit cards, there’s time to view the items surrounding me. The tables are covered mostly with familiar packaging: dark tubes of Purple Rain, large yellow Mad Dog canisters, squat cylinders of Red Devil, bullet-like Ground Bloom Flowers and chalk-like Mini-Monsters. Some new faces have joined the crowd, such as the small cartons of Little Miss. The wild array of bright colors brings to mind a very combustible candy shop.

On the counter behind the volunteers sit boxed assortments as well as stacks of the larger fireworks. Curious models include one resembling a shoebox pierced with paper towel dowels covered in aluminum foil, and the ring-shaped Oblivion, its glossy paper wrapping featuring eerie flames and dead wood superimposed on skulls. Even the interior panel of the “O” is thusly adorned. I mention this aloud in hopes of sparking (ha) curiosity. It works.
What’s noticeably missing is the prize $500 dollar, 4.5” high “Big Bang” boxed set.

“Where do you get them,” a customer asks. Social Chair Terri Steel-Smith explains, “The company comes into town—” An affable redhead regales me with the tale of how his mastiff tore a screen on his house last year. “To get to the fireworks?” I ask incredulously. “No, to jump inside! He wanted to get in!”

The frenzied pace of fireworks-selling calls for munchies. One of the ladies in the booth directs me to the last bag of SnackWell’s peanut butter-covered pretzel rings. Mid-chew, my eyes fall upon the large fan-shaped Delirium touting, “Maximum powder!” across its front, and it occurs to me that it might not be safe to eat food with fingers covered in gunpowder.

Susan Banks, 4th Vice President of Scholarships and Chair for the fireworks fundraiser, leads me out to the storage unit behind the booth. While she loads a dolly with boxes, I see there’s a banner behind the booth that reads, NO SMOKING. Good idea.

I bring in cases of inventory just in time to hear Steel-Smith making a pitch to an indecisive customer. “The Fourth of July comes only once a year! All the funds we raise goes back into the community: high school scholarships, programs for seniors such as Meals on Wheels…” The sale closed, I compliment the necklace she’s wearing, a string of multi-colored pearls interspersed with large American flags. “They gave it to me because I sold the $500 box,” she explains. “It took me a couple days.” No wonder, with her impressive sales skills.

We check ID when handling credit cards not only to check for minors, but also to avoid shady folk who try to use others’ cards. My next customer is clearly over 18 years of age, but his sly smile makes me want to ask for ID just in case. He pelts me with questions while picking through fireworks. “Where can we set them off? How about in Ventura? And Oxnard?” I warn him of the $1000 fine he’d face for lighting fireworks outside of town, and for lighting illegal fireworks in Fillmore, but he doesn’t seem to be too invested in my responses. He leans in a bit closer and his eyes grow big. “You have… blue in your hair.” He looks confused. “Yeah, I do,” I reply. He makes his purchase and scurries off. Burns calls over from the corner, “So, did he buy any? He was hanging around you long enough—” The thought hadn’t occurred to me. But at least in theory, flirting over explosives is kind of hot, come to think of it.

A man with two young boys in tow asks for sparklers. One of the boys complains, “Are you serious?” “You light it on fire and it looks awesome,” enthuses the other kid. The first boy is convinced: “Oh yeah!” They happily haul away their loot.

Another father leading his family walks resolutely towards me and asks, “Do you have a Pink Diamond?” Blast it; I’d been eyeing the last one… “We’ve one more,” I reply. “It’s sold!” his wallet is in his hand as his daughter beams beside him. He gets some Smoke Balls at his sons’ requests, and asks for something fun and inexpensive. “How about the Tequila Sunrise?” suggests Burns. “Sounds great! Even better if it were real… Keep the change,” he adds.

I overhear a volunteer encouraging the purchase of a large firework. “You, know, go big or go home!” The customer laughs, “I’m going big and I’m going home!”

One of the last customers I help appears to have a plan in mind. He asks for “something to start the show with” as well as “a good finale.” We collect two large fireworks and a boxed set. Suddenly his Sea-Bee baseball cap comes into view. He tells me he’s been a Sea-bee for eight years. “How is it,” I ask. “I love it,” he smiles. I’m happy to thank him for his service as he returns to his Suburban.

It time to head out, but I spy a tall man wearing a USC T-shirt. I can’t leave just yet; I motion for him to come closer. “I like your shirt. Here, have this.” I hand him a Blooming Ground Flower from my personal stash as the customers outside chuckle.

It’s been a good afternoon; since I began to keep track of my own sales, I averaged $50 a sale. Although the various non-profit groups manning the booths around town end up keeping about a third of their earnings after paying for everything from supplies to storage to generators, there’s far more to the experience than selling fireworks and raking in the cash. It’s a community effort to raise funds that benefit the city of Fillmore, and in the process of pooling time and resources to make it happen, we volunteers make some fun memories along the way.

It’s late when I roll out of town, fiddling with the radio in hopes of hearing some good country music—it doesn’t happen. The smoky air comes in through the open windows; a few renegade fireworks go off in the residential areas off the highway.

I can’t help but grin. Serious fire hazards notwithstanding, there’s something endearingly American about the thought of this country filled with a bunch of rebels setting off fireworks in honor of Independence Day. My thoughts wander to how difficult it will be to wash the blue gunk out of my hair. But for what remains of the night, I don’t mind looking odd in the name of sartorial patriotism. God bless America.