Issues → July/August 2009 → Interact → 10 Things to Do →
CLASSIC: Fireworks in Jaffrey, NH
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A handful of burly men in dusty T-shirts hang around the control table. Pelkey's annual show has something of a cult following on the circuit --pyrotechnicians come from far and wide to work alongside a creative leader in the industry.
Pelkey began working on tonight's show when the ground was still under February snow. In his office, crammed with fireworks memorabilia -- glasses, towels, posters, pins --he spent 100 computer hours choreographing a dance of fire, a chorus line of sparks and strobes. Most of it was in his head. A pyrodigital program breaks down songs into milliseconds, but the art comes in knowing each firework by heart --when it will lift, how it explodes, how far it will fly (up to 1,400 feet), the cadence of its sparks --and matching a skyful of this to music. Pelkey and his right-hand man, Matt Shea, put the finishing touches on the program just two hours ago.
"We need duct tape," Pelkey calls out. Several guys scramble. A roll appears from a truck cab. Bob Reed, a strapping sun-streaked blond from Manchester-by-the-Sea, looks out at the minefield and says, "It's held together by spit, glue, and duct tape." A couple of the men laugh knowingly. It's true. Beyond the computerized firing system, fireworks are low-tech. Tinfoil and rubber bands are tools of the trade.
At 8:35 P.M., offers of earplugs go around. A cop car cruises by. The sky is a smoky gray canvas with wisps of clouds. The guitar player picks a twangy solo. The crowd erupts. The men eye the crowd like shy dancers peaking out from behind the curtain. For some of them, this is the closest they ever want to come to fame: to be a shooter at the big Jaffrey show, to have a hand in adding a new constellation to the firmament, if only for a moment.
Pelkey douses himself with bug spray then checks in with Fireworks Command. Everyone hangs on his next word. He wears the mischievous smile of a kid who is getting away with something: Tonight he gets to blow stuff up. But it's more than that. Pelkey is an artist. Tonight is his Sistine Chapel. Tonight he paints the biggest ceiling of all.
Most shooters have an appetite for explosives, and this is a legal and safe way to sate that hunger. There's no safer fireworks company than Atlas, but when you play with fire, accidents happen. On average, there are more than 8,000 fireworks-related injuries a year in America and a dozen deaths. Most are backyard accidents, but a handful happen to careful professionals. In 1997, a mishap in Falmouth, Massachusetts, scared everyone at Atlas.
A crew loaded shells on an offshore barge for a Fourth of July display. As was common practice back then, mortars were left uncovered to be reloaded by hand later in the show. A bad shell exploded low and its "stars and effects" -- golf-ball-size fireballs, the guts of a firework's color and noise -- showered sparks onto the exposed shells below, igniting everything at once. Atlas's crew members dove into the water, but not before some suffered burns. After the accident, Atlas worked with the Occupational Safety and Health Administration to develop industry standards, including regulations for barge shows. After Falmouth, the already conscientious company became more vigilant. Tonight, a dozen safety personnel stand by.
A warning shot sends up a golden plume of sparks, and the first whiff of sulphur wafts by the control table. "Fireworks Command to Atlas," a woman's voice calls. "Should we do a time check?" Everyone synchronizes. 8:40 P.M.
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