Kyle’s Fourth of July fireworks lit the night skies, enthralling folks from near and far. (Photo by Doug Garner)
by WES FERGUSON
One by one, area cities were calling off the fireworks. It was just too dry this Fourth of July, they determined, to risk the pyrotechnics.
For three weeks leading up to Independence day, parks and recreation employees in Kyle had been meeting daily to discuss the fate of their own city’s fireworks display. Every meeting began with two questions from parks director Kerry Urbanowicz:
“Are we still on? Is there any reason to stop?”
“It’s not that we had to do it,” Urbanowicz said on Monday, an hour before the show was set to begin. “There was no reason not to do it.”
As evening approached, more than 30,000 people – a record crowd – lined miles of roadway and parking lots near the intersection of FM 1626 and Kohlers Crossing. They wore patriotic colors, tossed washers, threw footballs, and sat on quilts, lawn chairs and pickup truck tailgates.
Antonio Martinez of Kyle was perched on the toolbox of his handpainted truck, a 1977 F-250 that he calls “King Kong.” Above the truck, he’d mounted two large flags, Old Glory and the Lone Star.
“With me, I’m extra proud,” Martinez said. “That’s why I fly them as high as I can.”
Martinez, 60, is a Vietnam veteran who suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. When he recites the rosary every day, he prays that soldiers fighting overseas will return home safely and “get old like me.”
Martinez’ daughter Mauricia, 15, sat beside him. His wife Betty fanned herself as she lounged in the truck bed.
“He’s had us here since 6:30,” Betty said. “We brought hot dogs, food and drinks.”
“That’s what it’s all about,” Martinez answered. “It’s only once a year. Get to put my flags up.”
Just down the road from the Martinez family, Sandra Tenorio was wearing a flag T-shirt and drinking a Dr Pepper with relatives in town from California. Tenorio is the mayor pro tem of neighbor city Buda, which had canceled its fireworks show in response to the drought.
“I just appreciate the city of Kyle for spending the money and taking the risk,” she said. “I know they’ve done a lot of planning, and they have a topography that will better accommodate the possibility of fire.”
Buda had celebrated the holiday with a children’s parade earlier in the day, with a procession of fire trucks, squad cars and children riding bicycles decked out in red, white and blue.
“It was really nice,” Tenorio said. “We went to Buda this morning and Kyle this evening.”
The launching site for the fireworks was the 18th tee box at the Plum Creek Golf Course. Police, fire and emergency personnel – not to mention some 60 volunteers – were on hand to ensure a safe display.
Night fell, and folks settled into their seats. At 9:30 p.m. a “boom” echoed through Plum Creek, and all eyes turned toward the heavens. People cheered. Children squealed. A husband draped his arm over his wife’s shoulder.
“Isn’t that pretty?” someone said.
As the fireworks flashed one after the other, tendrils of smoke drifted across the suburban sky. There were no fires. Traffic wasn’t too bad. The show went off without a hitch.
