Fireworks and the Pyrotechnic Arts

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  • boys will be boys.

    I had plenty of opportunities growing up to indulge my boyish interest in pyrotechnics; my grandfather built a fireworks factory. I tagged along with my dad to the factory on many a Sunday morning mostly in silence. The few words spoken,  "don't touch that," "get away from there," broke through his meditative silence at random intervals – enough to keep me on edge. The musky smells of chemicals, papers and dirt, combined to fill the office with the well recognized odor of my dad's job. You could say it stunk but it smelled like incense to me.

    His office desk, shelves and floor were scattered with paper tubes, paper disks, stars and bits of green and black fuse. I stuffed them into my pockets as he focused on the newspaper, cigarette smoke rising from his fingertips. That office was as close to the factory as I could get, besides an occasional walk to the "smoke room" for a snack and a coke from the machines. it was just what it was called, a place for workers to smoke, and they all did – a lot. It smelled of cigarettes, urine and burnt fireworks.

    The only other soul at the factory on a Sunday morning was the watchman. There was always a watchman. I thought he lived in the smoke room. He  always talked to me, and showed his bad teeth and wrinkled face when he smiled. He usually smelled too, with that factory smell and BO. I liked him.

    I remember my first attempt at making my own firework. I tried to reload a parachute into a new tube. I took the lift powder from some other firework, loaded it carefully and then refolded and stuffed the parachute in my tube like a piece of wadding into the barrel of a musket. I lit the fuse and sent the fireball into the bushes of our back yard. As usual, dad pulled up just as I was putting out the last embers. "What the hell ya doin'?" he yelled. "Uhhhh…nothin'." That's all he said, but I'm sure I could see him smile as he went into the house.

     



  • The Fireworks Knot

     

     

    Making Fireworks Making Fireworks This blog is about the fireworks factory where I grew up and the things that I learned there. Looking back as a young boy learning the trade from my Italian fireworks making father and grandfather, the most fundamental skill I learned was how to tie the Clove Hitch – the fireworks knot. Everything in the factory revolved around this simple way of connecting two things together.I learned to tie in the finishing building on a Sunday afternoon in 1968. It was spring, a significant time of year in a fireworks factory where the aura brightens with the
    approaching fireworks display season. I sat quietly across the table from my father on a high stool watching him measure out lift and tie the bottoms of the shells stacked neatly in a pile in front of him. With the shell snugly between his legs and his head tilted slightly to one side, just enough to better see the paper and string in front of him, I watched with awe the rhythm of exquisitely performed ties, horizontally, around once, twice, pulled tight and cut, with the precision of a surgeonSitting there across from my father that afternoon I was baptized into my identity. I was a Rozzi. Somehow I knew that my credibility as a fireworks maker was directly related to my skill at tying that Clove Hitch. I could not follow his hands quickly enough in order to just imitate the movements and my father didn’t have much patience. So, in order to teach me, he had had to slow down enough to separate the movement into its parts. For him it was like pulling teeth.

    To teach me, he had to break his meditative rhythm and concentrate on passing his skill to me: “over once, over twice, cross – and through the loop.” I tried it again and again, referring back to his example, watching him tie the shells, as if learning to ride a bike. Then the moment came of first success. They say that the fireworks business is in one’s blood. Well, at that moment, it did in fact flow as much through my veins as through my hands and fingers. The ceremony was complete.

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