By Chuck Martin
Enquirer staff writer

We owe it all to Joe: The breathless ka-booms and brilliant explosions of light above the Ohio River.

Click for an in-depth look at the famous Waterfall Effect

Every Labor Day weekend for more than a quarter of a century, Cincinnati has witnessed one of the best fireworks displays anywhere. Riverfest is a signature event - a joyous exclamation mark at the end of summer - our last party of the season.

But Sunday, Riverfest will be bittersweet: For the first time since the show began, Joe Rozzi, the man behind the fireworks, won't be watching the bursting red chrysanthemums, shooting white meteors and other eye-popping effects. He died June 4 at age 82.

While some might argue radio station WEBN-FM could have hired another capable pyrotechnics expert in 1977 to put on what would become the first Riverfest, it is easier to argue it never would have been as consistently spectacular without Joe.

He learned to paint the nighttime sky from his Italian immigrant father and grandfather, and passed on the skills and passion for perfection to his seven children. Weeks before shows, he worried about every shell exploding as planned. He worked hard and worried more.

His name and business were invested in Cincinnati, his home.

Fact is, Riverfest has always really been Rozzifest.

Which is why our last fireworks show of the summer is so special - why we owe it all to Joe, an unassuming, stocky guy in a Reds ball cap who adored his wife's pasta e fagioli and wore the pungent smell of black powder like cologne.

Family's first test

IF YOU GO

What: Third Federal Riverfest When: Noon-11 p.m. Sunday. Entertainment begins at noon on riverfront stages. Toyota-WEBN Fireworks begin 9 p.m. Where: Cincinnati and Northern Kentucky riverfronts. Transportation: Queen City Metro and TANK will offer Riverfest shuttles. For shuttle times and locations: www.sorta.com or 621-4455 and www.tankbus.org or (859) 331-8265. Information: www.thirdfederalriverfest.com. Miscellaneous: Street and bridge closings begin 5 p.m. Alcohol, other beverages and coolers prohibited.

Having spent most of their lives in the business, Joe's children who work for the Symmes Township-based Rozzi's Famous Fireworks - Art, John, Nancy and Joey (daughters Paula Lutz, Angela Burns and Louise Erdeljohn work part-time for the business) - know they're able to execute Riverfest flawlessly. But they are the first to acknowledge doing this show - their biggest and most complicated of about 600 performances every year - will be more difficult without their father to answer last-minute questions and uncannily spot and correct problems.

"Near the end, he always thought he didn't matter, that he wasn't needed," says John, who some say looks most like his father when he was young. "His presence was what we needed."

His presence is what you hear most about Joe, who was notoriously quiet and understated.

He was able to communicate with a nod, stern stare or one-sentence reply - an unexplosive personality surrounded by whizzing rockets and bursting comets. It's one of the complexities that reveal Joe wasn't such a simple man.

He was seemingly fearless around fireworks - his children tell stories of him standing, eyes fixed on the sky, as burning trash from spent shells rained down. Yet when it came to personal confrontations, he avoided sparks and spats.

Joe was proud of the Rozzi name, but detested publicity. He listened to Puccini operas and laughed at Seinfeld reruns. A connoisseur of Italian food and Frisch's cherry pie, Joe was much more than a diligent craftsman.

Sea beckoned

Perhaps most surprising: Joe Rozzi never wanted to go into the fireworks business. He grew up in it - moved to Cincinnati in 1931 at age 10 with his father, Arthur, and brother Paul from New Castle, Pa., to put on shows at Coney Island.

From left, John, Nancy, Joey and Art Rozzi in the building where their father, Joe Rozzi, who died in June 2004, worked his famous magic in producing fireworks that are known the world over. (Enquirer photo/CRAIG RUTTLE)

Joe joined the Navy in 1943 and probably would have made it a career, but his father called him home two years later.

"He didn't want to go into fireworks," says Joe's wife, Jeanette. "But he did because his father wanted him to."

For the Rozzis, duty to family is utmost.

Joe courted Jeanette, whose family also emigrated from southern Italy, with movies and White Castles they shared in the car. While still in the Navy and stationed in San Francisco, he wrote her magnificent love letters.

They married in 1945. He worked long days, often every day. Every July Fourth, when Joe was out doing shows, Jeanette would set off fireworks at home for the kids.

"Our back yard was the most popular one in the neighborhood," says Art, the oldest, who speaks slowly and softly, like his father.

The Rozzis ate dinner together nearly every night. Joe believed the family meal was important and he loved Jeanette's cooking.

"That (work) was his life," Jeanette says. "He didn't do much at home, but I understood."

Later, after he died, the Rozzi children learned their parents had developed a touching nightly routine. He would put drops into her ailing eyes, then kiss each one lightly.

"I don't want to leave," Joe told his youngest daughter, Angela, this year after he was diagnosed with lung cancer, "'cause I don't want to leave your mother."

Can't be too careful

Joe's lifelong craft was to meticulously assemble fireworks shells as his ancestors did, with strong, calloused hands, a thin black line of powder under his fingernails. He worked in the whitewashed finishing room, one of the 40 or so small buildings on the surprisingly serene 50-acre Rozzi compound in Symmes Township, near Loveland.

"He was our quality control," says Don Rowe, who has worked for the Rozzis since 1977. "Joe would catch every single mistake."

Tamping explosive powder into shells is dangerous. Those who build fireworks learn to move slowly and carefully. They wear cotton instead of wool clothing to avoid static charges. At least a dozen workers have died in accidents at the Rozzi plant since 1945, including Joe's only brother Paul. It happened in October 1962, when the brothers were working together. Joe walked away, and a spark ignited explosive powder, blasting Paul against a fence. Jeanette believes her husband felt guilty his brother died and he didn't.

After his brother's death, Joe was left to run the business with his father. It flourished and the Rozzis earned a reputation as one of the best fireworks companies in the country. And although they put on shows for the Reds, Kings Island and Coney Island, they never did a signature show in Cincinnati - until 1977, when then WEBN station manager Frank Wood hired them to do the show that would become Riverfest.

Even though the first show received advance mention only on WEBN, thousands turned out to watch.

"They put a show on for royalty," Wood says. "They knocked everybody's socks off."

And so the tradition of Riverfest began.

Joe always played a supporting role to Art, John and Joey in "scripting" the fireworks to the musical soundtrack for Riverfest. But it was his idea, in 1986, to do a "waterfall" effect off what is now the Purple People Bridge. During the display, white fire slowly drips over the railings (in recent years, the Rozzis have done the waterfall off the Purple People and Taylor Southgate bridges), illuminating the bridges and the river.

Like his sons, Joe must have loved chugging upriver on a barge, armed with his fireworks, just before Riverfest began. Unlike other shows, the Rozzis can see spectators in boats and on shore, and hear their cheers and applause. Joe must have been proud.

Two years ago, the family finally convinced him he didn't have to ride the barge. Instead, Joe watched Riverfest from the terrace of a Kentucky hotel room with Jeanette, his daughters and the grandchildren.

"But you couldn't ask him questions during the show," Jeanette says. "He'd just watch."

Memories remain

The Rozzis all have their childhood memories of him - the Sunday mornings when he played opera on the stereo to keep them from sleeping late, the summer nights when they went with him for fireworks shows at Kings Island.

For Art, the best times were on Saturdays, when he'd walk across the hall to his dad's office to talk about things other than business. There, a plaque hanging on the wall certifies the Rozzis finished second in the 1992 L'International Benson & Hedges in Montreal, the unofficial fireworks world championship.

"Dad always said we got screwed that year," Art says with a grin. "We should've won."

Joe's last days

Art was with him in January, when the doctor told Joe he had lung cancer. Joe, who was 82, bravely joked he had hoped to live to be 85 - as old as his father when he died.

By February, the disease and chemotherapy prevented Joe from returning to work. He stayed at home in Kenwood with Jeanette, watching television and playing with his grandchildren. Sometimes, he'd go out into the driveway to sit in his blue BMW, his favorite car, to listen to the radio. One day, Jeanette saw Joe put the car into reverse.

"I'm just backing it up," he yelled.

The next thing she knew, Joe was driving his precious BMW around the block.

Joe still worried about his sons at fireworks shows. He'd nervously pace around the house until they called to tell him everything went well.

But the calls went out on him that June Thursday morning, to the seven Rozzi sons and daughters: Joe was admitted to Jewish Hospital in Kenwood with breathing difficulty. His children knew about his cancer, but they didn't expect the fearless fireworks man to lose this battle. Just a few days earlier, Joe was at the family Memorial Day picnic, looking healthy.

At 1 a.m.the next morning, on June 4, after taking the tubes out of his mouth to talk to his wife of nearly 60 years, Joe died.

Ever since they were children, the Rozzis remember their father saying they couldn't go on vacation, they couldn't take time off - anything - until after July 4, the peak of their season.

"After he died, I thought: 'You can't do this,' Joey says. 'Not until after the Fourth. It's your rule.'"

Three days after his death, Joe's funeral procession paused in front of the Rozzi compound for a fireworks display: Seven thunderous salutes to symbolize Joe's seven children, followed by a barrage of big bangs.

Traditions upheld

This year, like the others, Jeanette will bring a crucifix to Riverfest. It belonged to Joe's father, and she'll clutch it tightly as her sons launch shells from the barges. Jeanette forgot the crucifix last year - someone had to take her home to get it before the show began.

She won't forget Sunday.

This year, Joe won't be there to offer last-minute advice or fatherly approval.

"But I'm not so sure he won't be watching," says youngest son Joey, with a little smile.

"In a way, he is still here," says Nancy. "We catch ourselves saying, 'Dad wouldn't like that, or Dad would like that.'"

They say that after Riverfest, Joe often wept. He cried because the show, his explosive art of noise and light, was so utterly beautiful. He cried because everyone was safe.

Undoubtedly, when the smoke clears Sunday, more tears will flow for the man who gave us the perfect ending to summer.

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E-mail cmartin@enquirer.com