This post originally was published on Goldivas, “for women over 50 who are too young to be old.”  The authors opinions are her own, not necessarily those of The New Agenda.

I hear a whisper of wind that swirls the sparks around me before I hear the whooomp and feel the vibrations of an aerial shell that has successfully ignited and launched. All is the way it should be. I quickly move down the row of mortars and pull off another safety cap. I light another fuse and the fire-cycle is repeated

When I hear the crowds whistle, clap and cheer, I know I have created a unique but brief work of art on the night canvas. I understand I will never get to see the painted sky at the time of creation, because I am the pyro-technician. I am also one of the few women over fifty that work in this field. Pyro work is an art outlet and healthy workout for my brain and body.

According to research less than 1% of pyro-technicians are women of fire over the age of fifty. I am not talking about the office workers or the event coordinators. I am talking about those of us that are addicted to the intense experience and the smell of the black powder that the pyro-world gives us. We lift racks and mortars. We set electronic matches into the shell fuses, we run wires/ cables, hand light shells and promote safety.

We use our asthma inhalers instead of giving up the thrill. We are lead operators and designers of shows. Many of us donate our time and talents in the pyro field, as our volunteer work. There is no age limit and if you have physical limitations these can be worked around with the proper leads.

We are part of an elite group of women around the globe who have the courage and mental resilience to be part of the Pyro-techniques community. We have the same pioneering spirit that launches females to the moon today, and sent our ancestors west. I am proud to be associated with one of the last women frontiers. I am a grandmother of four, who bakes cookies, baby-sits and works for NASA.

We are just women that hear the call and have felt the thrill of the fire. As for me, it began as a way to share something unique and special with my family. Now I want to be a part of the magic that joins Americans across the nation on the 4th of July. There are no picnics for me on July 4th and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The work is hot, dirty, tiring and I’m a little vain, just like every other soul. Therefore, after the sun had seen fit to burn off my sun screen and paint me a rosy pink, and the dripping sweat is dusted with black powder, I proudly view myself as a faux painting created by nature. That is, until the TV cameras arrive and my daughter kindly reminds me I look and smell “rough”. Then my hidden desire to be Miss America surfaces, and I send my son-in-law, who looks as bad as I do, to talk to the news media.

I’ve seen racks and cakes (a barrage of fireworks in a cardboard box) explode. I’ve been next to low breaks and have been burnt. Safety and encouraging other women are my focuses. I know of four other women that have said “If that woman can do it so can I.” Pyrotechnics is what keeps me young.

The next time you lift your eyes toward the sky to watch a fireworks display, remember those bursting stars may be touched by the hand of a woman that placed a little extra love in the show just for you.