Fireworks

Fireworks

I don't really know how I became interested in things that make noise and fire.  I think like most addictions it starts subtly, little by little, then builds up to a full scale unadulterated need.  Whatever the case, the fourth of July was my absolute favorite time of the year.  Greater than my birthday, greater than even the big one. . .Christmas! 

Why?  Well, Christmas for me has always held spiritual significance, and even occasionally a decent gift or two, but, living in North Texas, I can only remember one slushy white Christmas.  We lived in a modest ranch style house which seemed to get smaller as the weather turned colder.  And, if THE BIG DAY turned out not to yield the desired toys, I was completely bummed out.  A lot of build-up that rarely met my expectations, though my parents did what they could.

On the other hand, The Fourth of July, and Fireworks in particular, were something I had a little greater control over.  I would begin on December 26th to collect every penny and dime around the house.  If it was loose, it went into my fund.  My neighbor, David, and I went so far as to learn to pull the seats out of our families' cars in search of lost coinage.  When I was old enough to mow lawns for money (another story) I always put some away for fireworks. 

Part of my addiction was war movies.  I became a connoisseur of special effects, especially explosions.  I dreamed about charging up a hill, bullets whistling by my head, reeling from near miss motor fire,  as I sprayed the enemy with my never emptying machine gun, knocking out the pillbox with a hand grenade, then carrying a wounded comrade to safety!

 I also became a connoisseur of fireworks.  I knew EXACTLY what each rocket, firecracker, missile, flying saucer, and roman candle would do.  I knew which were fun during the day, and which must be saved for night. To this day, I occasionally catch an unwary firework salesman making a mistake while expounding on the attributes of a particular pyrotechnic.

Anyway, I spent the entire summer hoarding money and allocating it into different piles in my mind for the different types of fireworks.  I wanted the most explosive power for the buck.  I knew how to make firecracker cannons from a lead pipe that would shoot a marble 100 yards.  I learned to throw firecrackers so they would explode just as they touched the surface of lake causing a big splash. 

My only regret was I was born too late for the cherry bomb.  Now that was some horse power!  I saw my big brother Mark stick one in a frog's mouth once.  After the gory debris settled all that was left was two  twitching drumsticks!  I even altered fireworks to make them more potent, or do things they were not supposed to do. 

One thing I did was to build model airplanes pre-loaded with bottle rockets and firecrackers inside so that when I tired of the model I could hang it by a wire from a tree, throw some lighter fluid (or gasoline) on it, light it, and give it a push!  Tora! Tora! Tora!  Many a Mustang, Zero, and Messerschmitt met a fiery, explosive demise.  Some of mine (I thought) looked better than their movie counterparts.

My parents pretty much ignored my mania.  Mom would always say, "The police are going to come and arrest you.  You know fireworks are illegal in the City limits."  I would nod dutifully then resolve to shoot something off further from the house next time.  She would also tell me stories of little Johnny Snotnose and how he blew three fingers off his hand, blinded a neighbor kid, paralyzed his cat, burned down his house and gave his mother a twitch by blowing himself up with firecrackers. 

I would sadly listen, shake my head and think, "That Johnny's an idiot" as I walked off to build my "Super-Cracker."  Truthfully, I did make a few bombs that "had a little more poop" than I expected, but when I got burned, hit with shrapnel, or deafened, I NEVER told my mom.  Gees, that would be IT.

There was a small-muddy lake called Loy Lake about three miles from my house. Before they built THE lake (Lake Texoma, a bazillion -acre Corp of Engineers job), Loy Park was the place families from the county went to swim, picnic and shoot fireworks.  My siblings and I had many pre-pubescent giggling fits over reading the Loy Park sign, which was letters welded to wire mesh, backward as we left the park.  One of us would say, "Look, that sign says Krap Yol,"  which in Texas slang is a perfectly good sentence.  My Dad would ignore it, while my mom would silently giggle herself and try to keep a straight face.

Most of the time the Loy Park of my childhood was a mosquito-infested, almost fishless, run-down, beer-bottle-strewn, void-of-human-visitors, graphiti-sprayed disaster.  Just the perfect place for a 11 year-old kid, a shoe box full of fireworks, and a warm Dr. Pepper.  To my chagrin, every other family in Grayson County had the same idea, and one day a year the park was wall to wall firework maniacs, small grass fires, small camp fires, loud radios, and noise. 

Nevertheless, we always found a place near the slimy water where my sister and I could ignite our pyrotechnics.  It was as close to a combat zone and heaven a bony, freckle-faced kid could be. 

Idiots would fire rockets in every direction, paying no heed to where they might go.  Some good ol’ boys would fire black powder rifles without lead ‘till I thought my ears would burst.  There were always dozens of surplus highway flares burning, some even in the water! 

Within one hour of sunset, the smoke hung about four feet off the ground in the humid air.  The constant detonations of various fireworks was a pulsating roar.  The guys with the deep pockets were igniting the big howitzer class star shells, and I was ready to go home.  All my stuff was gone, used up and I was bored.

July fifth was a bad dream.  Just another hot day in Texas.  Not even one firecracker left.  Dang.  Then one fourth evening my buddy David had an idea.  Why not get up early on the fifth, ride our bikes to Loy Park, and look around for fireworks and stuff people might have spilled in the dark?  What an idea!  What an awesome plan! 

Even as a kid I knew the effect of a six-pack on a hot, over-worked middle-aged man on a sticky summer evening.  Let's go!  I could hardly sleep that night, waking up to meet David by 7:00.  We "peeled out" as we pushed our Stingray bikes to the sound barrier.

Arriving at the park, we discovered that a couple of other people had the same idea.  Bummer.  But it just made our resolve stronger to cover more ground faster than "the competition."  It was a virtual smorgasbord of explosives!  We filled up a shopping bag each with un-expended fireworks.  I grabbed anything I thought I could salvage.  Short fuse, no problem.  No fuse?  Grab it.  There was no problem I could not overcome.  I was building huge firework monstrosities in my head as we peddled back in the now mid-morning, mid-nineties heat. 

But there was one small problem.  Dew.  During the night a heavy dew had fallen on the park, and since fireworks are mostly paper, they were damp.  Normally you would throw wet fireworks away.  Not me.  No, I knew that if you carefully dried them they might, and I do mean might, work.  Well I searched around frantically for just the right surface to dry my prizes on. 

I found it in our old Bar B Q grill.  You know - the cheap tin ones with the flimsy tripod legs, that usually last one summer, and never work right.  I moved the grill to the west side of the house into the blistering sun.  I carefully laid out each explosive for optimum baking and waited.

At this point I have to make a philosophical statement entitled, "Why did God allow there to be big brothers?"  My new fireworks were completely covering the grill two inches deep. They had dried nicely in the blistering sun under my constant sweaty supervision.  And like a fine cut of meat, I tenderly rotated each one for the optimum drying effect.  David and I were congratulating ourselves and making plans when Mark walked up.

Now Mark turned out to be a nice, hard working family man, much to my surprise.  But on this day the look on his face made him more closely resemble Charles Manson's evil twin brother separated at birth.  I knew I was in trouble when he pulled out the Genuine, Diamond Brand, "Strike Anywhere" wooden matches.  "No!" I screamed. 

Brothers can read each others minds.  He snickered as he lit and threw the first match toward the grill.  "I'll kill you!" as he threw another at the grill.  (At this point David is wide eyed and taking giant steps backward.)

It was his third match that I see in slow motion in my mind.  It did a full gainer as it ignited in mid air and spun menacingly in an arc right toward my beauties.  I can still hear his evil chuckle.  What happened next surprised even me.  Within three seconds, every one, I mean every one of those fireworks was ignited. 

It only took a nanosecond for Mark, David, and me to realize that they were pointed in EVERY direction, and that this was not a safe place to be. Boom! Overlapping explosions echoed for miles. Had it been night it my actually been pretty. Being as it was daylight, all we had was singe-ing, flying, blasting smoke.  By the time the last rocket whistled, and the last firecracker burst I was in a wall-eyed rage.  Mark had a saintly Mother Theresa "OOops did I do something wrong?" look on his face as I started screaming and swinging my fists at him with tears streaming down my face. 

He said "Sorry" about fifty times before he had the good sense to get his wallet out.  I'm sure no court in the land would have convicted me had I offed him over his heinous crime.  He gave me a five dollar bill then fled about the time my mom opened the door and said, "Don't you boys know it's illegal to shoot fireworks in the City limits?  The police are going to arrest you!" 

I nodded dutifully as I sniffed, picked up the litter and thought about what wonderful fireworks five dollars would buy.