Casings and mud

On neighborhood fireworks and disaster journalism

Aug 03, 2025

Article voiceover

0:00

-9:15

A casing left behind on Spruce Street in Deming, July 6.

July is over, the neighborhood fireworks have mostly subsided and my well-worn Timberlands are dry, for the moment, after tromping in thick mud more than usual this monsoon season.

It was far from the worst year as July fireworks go, but we still endured some unpleasant nights. The city of Deming puts on a grand, professional show over its artificial pond and water park; but there is a special thrill, I imagine, to lighting fuses oneself, being close to the crackle of ignition and the colorful bursts of light and thunder. In 2021, Americans purchased 428.8 million pounds of fireworks. They are obviously popular where I live. When Deming High plays football at their stadium down the street, the team has a custom of launching fireworks every time the team scores a touchdown, and they score quite a few.

Next door to us there used to be a combat veteran who admitted that the fireworks were miserable for him. He ultimately moved his family to a home outside city limits in Luna County, where I hope he enjoys quieter summer nights. We have neighbors who are elderly, and a disabled woman with a brain injury and severe mental illness. There are pets in the neighborhood as well. While a few of us lay down our cash at the pop-up fireworks stands around town to gear up for the 4th — an occasion extending through the month and sometimes longer before their armories are exhausted — the rest of us either make plans to be elsewhere or hunker down for a tough night, sedating pets and perhaps ourselves, preparing children for interrupted sleep, and maybe questioning who should be accommodating whom this time of year.

…in a neighborhood setting they inflict harm on people and animals. By accommodating endlessly and not talking about it, we are simply encouraging aggressive behavior by residents who can’t spare a thought for others.

We live near a wealth of open space distant from homes and most wildlife. It seems possible to designate places for people to enjoy fireworks and, through public education and block-by-block leadership, to advocate for using those spaces, without setting neighbors against one another or forcing a majority to suffer indefinitely through extended periods of unscheduled, intrusive and startling noise at all hours.

Another approach might be a fireworks ordinance (an ordnance ordinance?) establishing boundaries and times for fireworks in neighborhoods.

This post is public so feel free to share it.

I say this every year and am told it’s impossible; yet, it is not. We see these public-safety-and-health approaches when it comes to shooting guns in the air, another custom that can do harm. A few people still do this, as we sometimes hear, but the effort to cut down or eliminate the practice contributes to general safety and is worthwhile. Neighborhood fireworks, through unpredictable explosive blasts and sparks close to homes, inflict distress and potential hazards for no benefit that can’t be enjoyed elsewhere. This is a problem where, with creativity and leadership, everyone’s interests can be served.

And it should, because at the same time fireworks offer entertainment and are beneficial, in a neighborhood setting they inflict harm on people and animals. By accommodating endlessly and not talking about it, we are simply encouraging aggressive behavior by residents who can’t spare a thought for others.

The author, outdoors near the Organ Mountains, July 1

Writing about your terrible day

Monsoon rains flowing over burn scars claimed lives and damaged communities over the past month, and I found myself doing a good amount of flash flood reporting in July.

This included a week of correspondence from Ruidoso, immediately after a flash flood that killed three people there. Ruidoso had already been experiencing summer floods, and has managed several more since as seasonal rains continue to move over the mountains, where there is significant scarring from last year’s wildfires. The village has gotten quite skilled in its emergency management, from what I observed, including post-disaster inspections and construction permitting carried out in its planning and zoning office by staff that were friendly, compassionate and constantly on the move.

One of the personal challenges of this job, when reporting on disasters, is approaching people in the midst of recovery: They are pumping water out of their homes, clearing mud and debris, perhaps packing up to move out of a condemned property. Talking to a reporter about their terrible day is not the first thing on their minds. Yet approaching people in these circumstances, with dignity and good taste, is part of the job. First-hand accounts of the storm and aftermath are informative and compelling, conveying the magnitude of what took place and personalizing what might otherwise be a recitation of statistics about rainfall inches and property loss.

People respond to these situations in individual ways. There are those who find it helpful to process what has happened to them, and a stranger, even a reporter, will do. Others will put up a hand and say no thanks or something less polite.

At the same time, it leads to strange scenes as marked press vehicles circulate like ducks in a pond, and reporters with press badges, notebooks, cameras, and microphones pass through scenes of devastation looking for footage and interviews.

My press badge hangs around my neck as I walk, surveying the damage and observing people, making eye contact where I can, asking if people are all right and checking in with them as a fellow person first. People respond to chaos and trauma in individual ways. There are those who find it helpful to process what has happened to them, and a stranger, even a reporter, will serve well. Others will put up a hand and say no thanks or something less polite.

In Vado, an unincorporated community in Doña Ana County where a flash flood struck hundreds of homes after a heavy rainfall breached their arroyo, I trudged up and down Swannack Road, a residential street that was ground-zero for the disaster. I said hello to a household moving their furniture and clothing out into the sun, surrounded by mud and pooled water, as enormous dragonflies buzzed around and the racket of generators, water pumps and shouts filled the air. A woman on the porch yelled at me, “Do you have resources? Are you here to help us? Or are you just going to write a story?”

No one could say she was wrong or unfair. Further down the street, a man was taking a break while helping family members move their belongings into a home on higher ground. He made eye contact with me and seemed relieved to unload what he had gone through. He also shared questions he had for the county. He had good ones.

On Gavilan Canyon Road in Ruidoso, where I met people abandoning the wreckage of trailer homes, some salvaging metal roofs and other materials where they could, some viewed press coverage as a venue to ask for help, at a time when federal disaster assistance is less certain than previously in living memory. Some thanked us, as photographer Chancey Bush and I engaged with residents; and some were pleased when we came back to check on them again.

This kind of in-person reporting is expensive for the Albuquerque Journal and we have not been sent back. I’m tempted to return on my own dime to tie up monsoon season, check up on folks we met and write about the village’s recovery. But journalism is expensive for me, too. My Jeep Renegade has 270,000 miles on it and is starting to groan.