Brian humbly held our bag of sparklers as we stood, surrounded by boxes, massive fireworks, that must have been the equivalent of four months’ rent for the average person in our city. Our hostess emerged from a room that was papered gold, a massive, gaudy chandelier filling the space behind her. In heels, she barely reached five feet. “Who are these people?” I wondered.

We had spontaneously taken up their invitation after meeting them in the park. They didn’t resemble the Chinese people we usually interact with and I realized, no matter how much I learn about the culture I will always, to some degree, feel lost.

Grandmas in the grocery store have no qualms over telling me, “Two chicken breasts are enough to feed your family.” And friends comment on us running heaters in our apartment when the temperature dips. “You should move into a smaller apartment, then you won’t have to pay for heating.”

Though I sometimes puzzle over these statements, I do admire the collective value of being frugal. That’s why I was so surprised to see the tower of fireworks in front of our new friends’ apartment. We accepted a handful of Roman Candles, which are similar to bamboo tubes stuffed with gunpowder.

Family and friends gathered and soon everyone was lighting something, getting the festive mood going. Our hostess crept toward her son, who wasn’t much higher than my knees, gave him a Roman Candle, and carefully helped him light it. That was the only careful part of the process. Seconds later he was walking in any direction he pleased, firing the Roman Candle wherever he pleased. As he wandered, we noticed he was pointing it toward Bamboo Shoot, our son.

“Watch out!” Brian and I called and pulled the other children out of the way. He turned and nodded but only stepped closer to the line of fire.

“WATCH OUT!” Our voices fought against the banging swirl of fireworks. Brian rushed forward but before he could reach our son the boy fired directly toward his face. I cringed, frozen in place as Bamboo Shoot put his hand to his cheek. Brian grabbed his arm, pulled him close, and we huddled off to the side.

“I thought you were telling me to move away from that,” adrenaline pulsed in Bamboo Shoot’s voice, as he pointed to the box, just a few feet away, filling the sky with brilliant bursts of colour. “I felt the heat on my cheek.” Half an inch closer and he could have lost an eye. Everyone else was enjoying the chaos, not even noticing our near-crisis.

We said “thank-you,” and ushered our kids home. As we walked toward our building, dodging fireworks on the sidewalk, the road, and the path to our door we passed several other families and their version of what we had just come from.

We finally made it home, unscathed, thankful that our son still had all of his facial features, and marvelling that one family had put on a show that could rival Canada Day in the town I grew up in.

That had been enough for me but the kids and Brian were out again the next night, throwing smaller and much safer smoke bombs.

The fireworks continued for over two weeks, and not just at night. People were up as early as five a.m. to set off more. Once the kids grew tired of going out in the cold, we pulled the couch to face the window, snuggled up, and watched hour after hour of fireworks shows, from the comfort of our home.

This year, I would have been content to stay on the couch for the holiday but as soon as the pop-up stores opened the kids were begging. I couldn’t keep them from lining up to purchase their supply.

Tonight is the the last night of the festival and the grand finale. Fireworks were bursting early this morning and we’ll be joining the crowd tonight.

As long as we stay away from little tykes with Roman Candles it’ll be a happy Chinese New Year!