By Patricia Lee Sharpe
Emits showers of sparks!
Shoots flaming balls!
I’m driving North on Route 285 to check out the pueblos that usually offer fireworks for sale at this time of year. The question: are they, this year?
At the moment New Mexico is suffering a record-breaking drought. We are trapped in a tinder box, and it is igniting. Hundreds of wildfires dot the state, some very close to home, my home. Meanwhile, I’m heading North.
To the right of me, just across the Rio Grande, the largest wildfire in New Mexico’s history is only now coming under control. Over one hundred thousand acres has gone from green to black. This fire threatened the city of Los Alamos, whose population was evacuated, and caused the closure of the National Laboratory, where the Atomic Age was born. Airborne disaster would have resulted, I'm told, had the conflagration reached some dumps where “low level” nuclear waste is stored. (It shouldn’t still be there, but the hazardous waste clean up process is an evasion of responsibility game that ignores possibilities like wildfire invasions.) The fire intruded onto Santa Clara pueblo land and damaged some ancient dwellings at Puye. It burnt apple orchards in Dixon. It raged onto the federally protected meadows and forest lands of the Valles Caldera, a huge collapsed volcano in the Jemez range.
To the left of me are the still-burning remnants of the Pacheco Canyon fire which caused the closure of some of the best hiking trails in Northern New Mexico and prompted Santa Fe authorities to bar its addicted hikers from all the mountain trails within its precincts. For the most part, the Pacheco fire confined itself to forested national and state parks or wilderness areas. Still, thousands of acres of stately ponderosa, nut-bearing piñon and delicate aspen went up in smoke.
As I drive, I’m listening to KSFR, our listener-supported local radio station, which is broadcasting interviews with local officials, whose annually-recurring 4th of July headaches have turned into migraines this year. Not only is there an official city fireworks display to be conducted responsibly, there’s the perennial craving for hands-on experience with fireworks. Sometimes the worry is only about kids who mishandle bottle rockets. Often, as with this year, the hazard is that and more: setting off a fire that surges all but instantly out of control.
Still listening as I drive by the Santa Fe Opera, I learn that the grounds of the Santa Fe High School stadium are even now being fire-proofed for the official celebration. If only the same could be said for neighborhoods where I've heard poppety-pop-pops over the past week. But those naughty fire(cracker)bugs had better be watching out. Coppers, it seems, are cruising the city with fire officials riding shotgun. If anyone is reported (or observed) to be sending rockets into the air, the fire department rep will cite chapter and verse, and the policeman will write a citation. The penalty will be a well-deserved big fine.
I drive through Tesuque pueblo. No fireworks. I pass through Nambe pueblo. No fireworks. A few miles on, I reach Pojaque pueblo—and there it is, parked right out in the open by the side of the road, a big white truck. Painted on its side: a bold fireworks logo. Behind the truck is a huge white tent I've never seen before, but it's purpose is clear: to push incendiary toys. Toys for real kids. Toys for immature adults.
Native Americans pride themselves on being sensitive to the beauty and sacredness of their natural surroundings, but Pojaque pueblo may be badly in need of some extra money. Pueblo leaders borrowed heavily to build an upscale resort—golf and gambling—under a Hilton franchise, but I've read recently of crime-level charges of financial mismanagement and difficulties in meeting bond interest payments. Admittedly, these past few years have not been ideal for opening a major tourist destination.
Please understand that I have no issues with pueblos or other Indian nations running casinos or selling any quantity of hooch or coffin nails to non-natives who want to ruin their own lives. That’s a fair enough exchange for Whites having introduced firewater to the Red Faces in past centuries. But selling fireworks is not a simple matter of indulging individual vice, because fire is no respecter of boundaries. One stray spark and a whole county goes up in flames! In addition, burnt forests can ruin watersheds. Not good at all in this high desert land where the water supply is never in excess of need.
Fireworks sales must be penny ante stuff for Pojaque high flyers. So why are they inviting the scorn and opprobrium of the neighbors, including the nearby pueblos whose members have resisted the temptation. It’s puzzling. But there it rises: a tent as big as three or more tennis courts—and it’s full of fun ways to set our world on fire.
There’s some good news, though. Very few cars are parked outside. And when I enter, I find I’m the only “customer,” except for one young couple, who seem unable to load up the carton the man is carrying. For some reason, they leave empty-handed. An attack of conscience, perhaps? Or maybe the really exciting items were too expensive. I saw price tages of $25 and $50 and more. No wonder the row of six cash registers by the exit looks so deliciously forlorn.
Meanwhile, as the only target in sight, I am beset by underemployed salesmen. “Can I help you?” “Are you finding what you want?” I play along, inspecting the flash/bang potential of the Chinese imports heaped, stacked and piled on tables that go on forever. When addressed, I smile sweetly and reply that I need to see what’s available before I make any decisions. “It won’t be easy,” I murmur. They take that as a compliment and smile back. “Take your time.”
Actually I want to make notes and take a picture or two. But these salesmen have a distinctly thuggish look: muscular men in tight black tee shirts with tattoos running up and down their arms. They loom, and they won’t leave me in peace long enough to slide out my camera and get it into focus. Plus, since I am indeed guilty of bad intentions, I project accordingly. They’ll grab me and throw me out—or worse, if I transgress. So—sigh!—I confine myself to memorizing choice bits from a couple of packages.
Emits showers of sparks!
Shoots flaming balls!
The prosecution rests.