The 4th of July in Ukrainian Village is insane

I grew up in Indiana, where buying and igniting fireworks is more legal than paying your income taxes. Back in the 80s, we'd go to the parking lot of this junkyard on the corner of Route 6 and Lake Park Avenue where some mysterious men set up tents of explosives for sale. My parents spent who knows what sum on sparklers and smoke bombs and fountains and spinners. On the big night everyone in the neighborhood would sit on on their curbs (or hide in the backseat of their station wagons if they were too scared) while their dad's set off the fireworks.

When I was a little older, I think my parents realized they were throwing their money down the toilet through this patriotic process, and we started going to the city fireworks in Hobart and Portage. When I first moved to Chicago I would trek back to Indiana for the festivities. Something about sharing the night under the fireworks with countless other simple folk was magical. Especially in Hobart, where that old-town feel at the downtown parade and the lakefront park ambiance at the fireworks make you feel like you're living in some sort of Pleasantville reenactment.

The past several years, however, Bill and I have attended the Oak Park fireworks. They didn't have quite the charm as Indiana fireworks. Something seemed, I don't know, sterile about the entire experience. Last year we sat on a soggy tennis court next to a family that obviously hated each other and everyone in attendance. But still, it was fun. It reminded me of going to the city fireworks as a lass and being part of a community, and I thought I would miss it when we moved into the city.

Alas, read the title of this post! On Independence Day eve, we were keenly aware that many fireworks were being detonated in the vicinity. I'm talking being detonated by average folk who live in the neighborhood, not by professionals ordained by the city. I was shocked. I didn't think people did this in Illinois. I've lived in several Chicago neighborhoods previously, including Roger's Park, Wrigleyville, and Andersonville, and the skies were silent around the 4th of July.

So on the 4th of July night Bill and I took our camera and sparklers and wondered about the streets of our new neighborhood. It was crazy! I've never heard such random crackling and ubiquitous booms before, not even in my Indiana youthdom. Every time we passed an alley, someone was there lighting a fuse. The sky exploded. The earth rattled. It was a real hoot, and way better than sitting on metal bleachers listening to "Born in the USA." It made Ukrainian Village seem a little more like home.