Ocean City Fireworks
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By Jim McKeown
The Fourth of July was a big deal in Ocean City, and that included the fireworks. The display would be held on the boardwalk with several hundred people lining the beachfront to watch. It was not uncommon for as many as three million spectators from all over the Mid-Atlantic to see the show.
The day before the holiday, thousands of spectators were already lined up along the boardwalk and beaches waiting for the show. The night before, my family and I watched the display from our backyard. My dad’s job had taken him out of town so he couldn’t make it home this year.
We missed his usual seat right up front on the beach, but we were still close enough to hear the explosions in the distance and smell the gunpowder as they went off. We had plenty of food and cold drinks on hand, making sure to stock up on ice just prior to the event.
My mom had even packed the lawn chairs and blanket that we normally used for the annual trip to the lake during our summer vacation. I felt like a little kid again and was excited to spend some quality time with my family.
I didn’t want us to leave at all, but there was work the next morning so we reluctantly headed inside once the first round of fireworks ended around midnight. As usual, we got to bed pretty late, and I didn’t sleep too well as I tossed and turned thinking about how much fun the rest of the weekend would be. In fact, I don’t think any of us really slept very soundly that night. It was just too exciting to know what the next day held.
On Friday evening, Mom woke me up early, which is no easy feat considering how much sleep I typically need. But after I rolled out of bed to get started on the last-minute chores, she told me it was time to go.
“We’ve gotta be down there by 6:30 if you want to stake out a spot,” she said, referring to her and my dad’s favorite place on the boardwalk near the Ferris wheel where they always sat for the show.
She also explained how important it was that I take good care of my younger brother who was still too young to be allowed onto the beach during daylight hours. My sister was already up and had eaten breakfast as she usually did before leaving for school.
I grabbed my beach towel and headed outside to get some sun while my dad made some final arrangements for us to be able to secure a good spot. He had called a few friends to come to join us, and they arrived within the hour. By 10 o’clock, it was time for everyone to get ready and head out.
As I walked across the street, I thought to myself that it might turn into another scorching hot day. That wasn’t the case, though, because the weather gods decided to bless us with a nice cool breeze that was perfect for the occasion.
We found a great spot between the roller coaster and the Ferris wheel where we could still see the boardwalk. Once Dad secured us a space, we put the blankets down and took a seat on them while my brother laid underneath. The sky was cloudless and the air was fresh and cool; the perfect conditions to watch the show.
There were thousands of people scattered throughout the beachfront, most of whom were families just like ours. My parents had purchased VIP tickets, so we had reserved seats that were located right in the middle of the action—which meant we had an excellent view of everything.
I loved being able to look up at the sky while watching the colorful lights shoot off one after another as they made their way upward and eventually disappeared behind the clouds. It was an awesome sight to behold.
As the clock struck 11am, fireworks started going off on all sides of us. We cheered and clapped every time they went off, and then looked forward to the next round. I remember getting so caught up in the moment that I actually forgot I had to keep an eye on my little brother.
As a result, I ended up losing track of him for about 30 seconds until my mom spotted him walking toward the water with one of our neighbors. She yelled for me to follow him immediately, and that was when I noticed my little brother holding his hands in the air as he walked along the edge of the beach.
“Where are you going?” I asked. He ignored me, but I knew he would listen when Mom screamed at him to stop. He was about ten feet from the ocean when she shouted, and I ran over to grab his arm just as he began to step out into the water.
At first, I thought he would pull away from me, but instead, he seemed surprised to see that I was approaching him and didn’t resist. Instead, I wrapped my arms around both of his little shoulders and pulled him back onto dry land. After that incident, he never went anywhere without an adult again. And neither did I.
The rest of the day was just as magical, and I can honestly say that it remains one of my favorite memories ever. I have been blessed with the opportunity to witness a lot of other spectacular sights since then, but none has ever compared to that day on the beach.
To this very day, whenever I think back on that experience, I am overcome with gratitude that I got to be a part of it, even if only in a small way. For it reminds me that life can surprise us in wonderful ways, even if we’re not looking for it.
And it’s those unexpected surprises that remind us that each new day offers us the chance to make a difference by simply being kind, loving, and grateful for everything we have.
Because the truth is, you never know what’s around the corner, so we should never pass up an opportunity to do something nice for someone else—whether it’s giving your friend a hug or sharing a smile with someone you don’t know. In fact, you just never know who may be watching. So why not take the opportunity to make a positive impression?
I learned that day on the beach to always expect the best and hope for the best because anything less would never be enough. And as for my little brother … well, he’s now a successful attorney working for a prestigious law firm in San Diego, and I can’t wait to tell him all about it.
***
My mom always told me that you can’t judge a book by its cover. She was right. But sometimes you can judge a person by theirs. This brings me to my story.
It was late August when my family decided to visit Ocean Beach on a Sunday afternoon. I was nine years old at the time and had no clue whatsoever what awaited me in store. As soon as we parked our car near the boardwalk, I started looking around, taking it all in and trying to decide which booth to eat at first.
When I turned around, though, my eyes widened with disbelief. A tall woman dressed in a black business suit with a white blouse under her jacket was standing right in front of me. My heart skipped a beat, and my legs grew weak. Then, suddenly, a familiar voice rang out, causing my stomach to drop straight to my toes.
“You’ve grown since the last time I saw you,” she said with a big smile on her face. “When are you coming back to school? Is it next month?”
Her name was Ms. Pemberton, and I knew instantly who she was. It made perfect sense, too. She was the only teacher I’d ever had whose class I enjoyed. I loved her stories of the adventures she took us on each week when we read a new chapter in our books.
She used real-life examples to show how important it was to always put in your best effort because you never knew when you might need that extra boost in order to get through difficult times. Most important, however, was the fact that she was a kind and caring person who always made me feel safe and comfortable.
That was a feeling I desperately needed during my fifth-grade year at my previous school.
That day, we chatted for almost an hour while my parents ate their lunches. Ms. Pemberton told me all about what was going on in her classroom. How some of the students had been struggling with their math homework and were having a tough time getting through Algebra 1.
The same thing had happened last year with the English assignments, she explained. But this year things seemed to be moving along more smoothly thanks to the new textbook they had recently received. Then she asked me what I had planned for the fall semester when school started. I replied by saying that I wasn’t sure yet; I hadn’t given it much thought.
After listening to what I had to say, Ms. Pemberton looked me in the eye with a reassuring smile and told me that I could probably handle a tougher class like Algebra 2 next year. All I needed to do was keep doing my homework every night, study hard for my exams and tests, and practice writing essays on my own time as well.
Then she asked me where I went to school. I told her that I was homeschooled.
Then she said the three words that sent shivers down my spine: “You can come to my school next year. You’ll love it!”
I felt as if I was floating on air after that. It wasn’t until later that evening that I remembered to ask my parents what I’d missed that day in my Algebra lesson.
“Nothing important,” my dad told me, “just the basics.”
I didn’t believe them. What did they mean by that? Was something wrong with Algebra 2? And then, just days before the start of school, I got even more worried when one of my teachers approached my mom after class and asked her if I wanted to attend public school instead.
My parents said no. They insisted that I stay homeschooled, just like I’d always done up to that point. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow my fault that things hadn’t gone as well as I had hoped in my previous class. I tried talking to my dad about it, but all he could do was assure me that everything would be fine.
Then came the morning of the first day of school—my first experience in a traditional classroom environment ever since kindergarten. As we drove off in our car, my parents were both excited, but nervous. I was terrified, wondering what was going to happen now.
We pulled into the parking lot of my school just as the bell rang, signaling the start of classes. I quickly spotted my mom, standing there in the middle of the hallway waiting for me to join her so we could walk together toward our respective classrooms.
She looked over her shoulder and smiled at me before waving goodbye to me from afar. Then we were off, heading in opposite directions for our first day of fifth grade.
My dad helped me carry my bookbag onto the bus, and then we parted ways. He had already arrived earlier than expected to ensure that I’d have a seat on the bus. He wished me luck and told me to do my very best today—a request that left me completely perplexed.
Why would I need to do my best? After all, it was just another ordinary day at school for me. I had no idea why his wish made me feel anxious, but it did. So far, it was shaping up to be an interesting day.
I soon found out exactly how right he was when I entered the classroom. The place was full of kids around my age, most of whom looked bored or sleepy. Some were fidgeting anxiously, others chatting away, while still more simply sat with their heads resting against the wall.
At that moment, I finally realized why my mother had gotten so upset about the whole issue with Ms. Pemberton back in June. She had been worried because none of the other students in Algebra 2 were able to answer even a single question correctly during their final exam. And yet she knew that I had answered every question correctly on mine. That’s not the kind of thing you forget.
In fact, I remembered it so well that I wondered if maybe it really was my fault. Maybe my being homeschooled had been holding me back all this time?
And just like that, my fears began to take hold as I watched everyone around me. They stared at me as if I were a ghost. I wasn’t used to such looks, especially considering that I spent the last several years in front of a computer screen studying math online. And here I was, walking into a brick-and-mortar classroom, surrounded by kids who were used to going to school every day.
I tried smiling as I walked past a few of them, hoping that maybe they’d be open to making a friend out of me, but nobody bothered to return the gesture. Instead, they kept staring at me as if they were trying to figure out what I was doing there—as if the only reason I should be allowed in their school was because of a clerical error.
That didn’t bother me too much, however, compared to what happened next:
As I turned a corner into the hallway outside of Ms. Pemberton’s classroom, I saw someone familiar—someone, who had once helped me through the toughest times in my life, someone I’d considered family: Mr. Smith! My math teacher for the past four years of schooling and, at the time of my diagnosis, a dear mentor and friend of mine.
I hadn’t seen him in months, but that didn’t stop me from stopping dead in my tracks to stare at him for a minute as he passed by. I was shocked.
“Hey, Benji,” he said as he noticed my presence standing right behind him. “I haven’t seen you in forever! Where’ve you been?”
Mr. Smith, I thought. The same Mr. Smith who had been the first person to notice what was going on with me? Who had supported my parents’ decision to homeschool me, despite the protests of many of the teachers at our school? The man who had been willing to help me when I needed it the most?
The one who, as recently as two months prior, had come out of his office to give me a pat on the shoulder whenever I felt overwhelmed? The one who I’d always known as a teacher…but also as an older brother, and a father figure too? It was impossible.
But there he stood, and he looked the same as always. Except for one thing: He was looking at me with a look of concern, rather than the warm smile I’d grown accustomed to seeing every morning in class.
He glanced over his shoulder at me and smiled again. Then, he continued on his way.
The End