On the evening before the Winterlude fireworks, Dad and Khadija took us to eat at Chez Fatima in Gatineau, Quebec, across the river from Ottawa. After the feast, they drove home, and we walked the few blocks to the Canadian Museum of Civilization.
There on sloping, snow-covered lawns leading to the edge of the Ottawa River, people were gathering to watch what what was supposed to be a spectacle.
There were black-hooded walkers on tall stilts draping red flowing flags over the heads of anyone passing by. And there were two fife-and-drum corps marching in the plaza. There were great spotlights shining thru the falling snow, lighting up the low clouds. And in the background across the river stood the many towers of Parliament Hill.
There were some welcoming speeches, and there was some music on a stage. Then (right on time), as the snow fell and the spotlights swept the sky, the show began.
There were greens and blues. There were whites and reds and oranges. There were great explosions that echoed off the shore and lit up the sky. There were fountains spouting upward and glowing tracers drifting downward all the way to the river’s ice. There were purple spikes launched from the bridge and twisting rocket contrails. There were spinning curlicues and jets of fire that flew out over the river.
There were columns of sparkling white light that exploded into mayhem.
And there was something that I’ve never imagined possible—a waterfall of white fire running off the edge of the bridge all the way across the frozen river from Ontario to Quebec.
After a while the crowd fell silent. The show just kept going. The fireworks just kept coming. Rockets kept exploding. Flares kept flying. It was indeed a spectacle, just as they had promised.