The
Fireworks
Man
Paul, with his wife, Inta.
Foreword:
Sometime in March I got a phone call. Paul passed. It was a jarring thing to hear. The world was a little less vibrant and a little bit more grey and I did not know how to feel about it. I grew older, like a person looking at yet another grey hair and pondering what it means. What follows is a brief meditation on a man I grew up with. It will be read aloud by my mother at his memorial on April 11th, 2015. His name was Paul Ertel. He was 6'4". He both was and was not my uncle. He was the fireworks man. And he’ll be dearly missed.
Paul was one of the good ones — a man so enthusiastic, so full of love, light and excitement that his passion for fireworks seemed only natural. He left an imprint on everyone he met, and for good reason: Paul stood at what felt like 6’4”. I cannot be sure because I truthfully don’t know, but what I do know is that when he talked he’d lean over, tilt his head down so his eyes just hovered over the rims of his glasses — which were expertly balanced on his large nose — and pull you in. He was always slightly hunched, with his knobby fingers working on this and that. But no matter what he was doing, he was always magnetic: for the first half of my life I was convinced that he was my uncle and I was his nephew.
It turns out that we weren’t related, but we were.
Paul Ertel was an accomplished man: he was both a veteran of the Korean War and a graduate of the University of Virginia. Paul discovered the foundation of his life during his college years when he met Inta, his soon-to-be-wife. Over the years he grew to be a respected pediatrician and pioneer in his field. His curious nature drove him to research how the human ear — across the age range — interacted with stethoscopes. His findings, much like the ubiquitous instrument, still holds influence today and has helped to develop a new variation of the iconic tool. As an entrepreneur, Paul founded a company that applied computer analysis to medical data — a massive innovation at the time. As a homeowner, he tended to his garden, trading tips and the fruits of his labor with my grandfather, another avid gardener. His projects were a constant, and reached into every facet of his life.
Paul was a husband, a father, a grandfather and uncle. He and Inta raised two children, Dace and Lynne, and helped to raise their treasured grandchild, Martino. All this on top of helping to herd and nurture the Rawson Clan’s youngest generation. He did all of this with an energetic glee.
But more than all of these things, Paul was our uncle — our exploding grandfatherly figure who manned the corn pits, beer in hand, with our Grandpa. To us nieces and nephews he was an otherworldly figure: he was the showman, he was the fireworks man. He was the man we all knew who had a firecracker or two nearby and a borderline arsenal of explosives contained somewhere in the confines of his basement. (Despite many attempts at locating these potent, and sometimes illegal under Michigan law, explosives, we never found them — perhaps that was for the best).
Paul would mark every corn roast and birthday with a fireworks show. There would be fountains, sparklers, kiddie chasers (the ones that would zzzzzzoooomp, and chase you down the gravel driveway), bottle rockets, bottle rockets with parachute toys strapped to them, poppers, roman candles, firework arrays and even mortar fireworks. And throughout the show, Paul, in his booming baritone voice, would light the night up with this rapid-fire narration of the fireworks as they went off.
“There we go, a fountain of gold and a sparkle of blue for the Maize and Blue!”
“And there’s a hint of violet sparkled with red hue and…”
(It’d be later pointed out to me that it was hard to tell who was having more fun: Paul lighting the fireworks, or the little guys watching them. In retrospect, this is true.)
And so he’d go and we’d pay attention with rapt excitement. The first thing we’d ask him when he arrived to the roasts was what fireworks he brought with him. What are we going to fire off today? Bottle rockets? Parachute men? Roman candles? That was Paul: the fireworks man. Where he went, they were sure to follow, and all of us nieces and nephews would watch (and even get to light them on occasion) with a brimming excitement and anticipation for what would come next.
There was this one time, when my then-girlfriend, now soon-to-be-wife, first met Paul. I had to be 22 at the time. From what I recall, their meeting was (from the nervous observation of a then-boyfriend, now soon-to-be-husband surrounded by boisterous family members) remarkable because the two seemed to have gotten along so well. They talked as if they knew one another. It shouldn’t have been a surprise: they both had a deep-rooted love of science and medicine and have a natural curiosity.
But that wasn’t what I was getting at. It was the damn fireworks again. This family corn roast was particular because my actual uncle, who taught classical music theory at Canterbury, was in town with his family — his wife and toddler son, the latter of which obsessed over tractors in all forms and drove a pedal-powered tractor replica around the property with impunity — while another assumed-uncle was visiting from Texas. This being unusual, we decided to celebrate the Michigan way: a corn roast and fireworks.
Manning the pits.
The fireworks were great, but one in particular gave us trouble. It was this smallish array — a box filled with 100 some-odd miniature fireworks that’d shoot off like a machine gun and make tiny pops and explosions. The problem was that the fuse wouldn’t light, no matter what we tried. We had to light it. It was, if memory serves me correctly, the grand finale. Eventually Paul, Pat (the other adopted uncle) and I gathered around the array trying to puzzle out how to keep the show going. We pried at the fuse, we fussed with the light and we mumbled reassurances to one-another.
After a good deal of clicking the lighter and tearing at the fuse, we were greeted with the sudden fizzle and spark of the firework’s lighting mechanism waking to its shortened chemical life. That’s when Paul dropped the box, the array fallen to the side.
For a moment the world paused as our brains processed what just happened: a fireworks box, filled with at least a 100 miniature rockets, fell to the ground. The fuse was lit. The array of rockets was pointed towards the three of us.
Paul’s voice broke the silence: “Oh shit.”
Then the array went off.
We tore off to the barn (and by we I mean Paul and I because Pat was quick enough to realize that stepping to the side was enough to get out of the line of fire and he did so), but no matter how fast we were the sparkling lights and peeeeeeews and pops and howls of laughter chased us down. Paul, after what felt like a solid minute, veered to the left towards a silo for shelter. I kept running and watched one rocket as it flew over my left shoulder before hitting the barn and going “pop!” After that minute and a half, we were safe. We escaped a borderline c-list action movie effect.
My uncle, the one who flew all the way from Canterbury with his family, nearly fell out of his white plastic chair in laughter. He wasn’t alone. Embarrassed, but satisfied that we put on a good show, we walked back to the platform and we enjoyed our night.
That was the last I could recall of spending time with Paul.
When we were told of Paul’s fall, we braced ourselves. We sent our best, our love and our hopes, and we waited for whatever would happen next.
In truth Paul’s passing took years. When he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, the family was concerned. What could we do? Is he okay? How is Inta? Lynne? Dace? Martino? We heard the disorder was manageable at first — pants being put on the wrong way once — but its march was unceasing, unforgiving, mechanical. From a distance we worried. When I learned that Paul and Inta sold their house on the lake, there was a sense of an eerie optimism. The move, to a living center near doctors, made sense. It was good for the both of them. They could get immediate treatment when they needed it. They were surrounded by peers. They were doing what made sense. But that decision was final: the fireworks man had no more shows to give. And then he passed.
The cook.
The news of death is like a bottle rocket: a sudden, bright bang of emotion and memories that pop and echo into numb silence. But that singular explosion spurs others. Other pops and fizzles and sparklers sprout and bloom as the mind’s eye races to hold those moments together. It’s a reaction that cannot, nor should, be stopped. The rush to find his hidden cache of fireworks; the booming voice that brought each spark of color to life; the quiet gardener; the man that’d find the freshest, best cooked corn cob, husk it, and then plop it onto your plate or cob holder; the old soul helping Grandpa to turn corn and drink Oberon beer; check-ups as a child at his house; corn roasts in his backyard; a replica of the statue of liberty being planted on his property line and thusly tormenting a neighbor; the proud grandfather; the parties and family get-togethers and cooking; Christmas; the jokes; the mad dash to the barn; and his talking with Maddie.
Like a firework, those moments came and went, and they remain as echoes in my mind. They’ll be there, bouncing around the walls of my cranium for as long as I live. I count myself fortunate to have those snapshots, those bursts of light and life, popping in and out of my consciousness. It can’t be helped. That was just how Paul left his imprint on life: sudden, unforgettable moments that you’d just keep grinning at.
After all: he was the fireworks man, and he was one of the good ones.