Featured in this edition of the Tate Record is a guideline for firework safety. It encourages citizens to basically use common sense when it comes to setting off fireworks and enjoying the Fourth of July.
Well, folks, I want to go ahead and say that I urge everyone to do the same. Use common sense and practice safety protocols when dealing with fireworks.
If I’m honest though, it is a far cry from how I grew up. I’ll go ahead and admit, yes, I know I was a heathen child, but I came by it honestly.
I’ve mentioned time and again that I grew up on a farm. The Fourth of July was always a time when my family including aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents would get together to enjoy the summer sun and fun.
The men would fire-up the grill and cook huge assortments of hamburgers, hotdogs and steaks. The ladies of the family would bring various pasta salads, potato salads, chips, cookies, pies and cakes, but the primo-priority food item was the churned homemade vanilla ice cream.
My cousins and I would salivate and think we were dying of old age as we waited for the hum of the ice cream maker to grind to a slow halt signaling the frozen delicacy was finally at the desired consistency.
While the homemade ice cream was a treat for the holiday, it, by no means, was the height of the evening. No. That prize was the epic bottle rocket wars my entire family would participate in during the fading hours of daylight.
No- it wasn’t safe. No- it’s not advised. But, man, was it a “blast”.
After the meal was finished and the appropriate amount of time had passed to allow the food to digest, we would all gather around the loot of fireworks which had been stockpiled near my grandparents’ back porch. See, every member of the family would have visited the local firework stand by that point. Why the multiple trips, you wonder?
Because everyone, and I do mean everyone, had a different idea on what was the best firecrackers. Someone liked Black Cat and would make a run to the stand and inevitably pick up a few packs of bottle rockets and sparklers to go with it.
Then another member of the family would decide we needed Ground Screamers and head off to pick up those…and more bottle rockets. Suddenly, an aunt would remember she wanted to grab some Chinese Lanterns, and return from the store with those, and, you got it, more bottle rockets.
By the end of all the separate runs, we’d have huge amounts of bottle rockets; so what else could we do with that many weapons of mass destruction, but to wage war on each other? And wage war, we absolutely did.
One particular year’s “battle of carnage- bottle rocket style”, stands out above all the rest.
My grandparents sat serenely on their back porch swing like a pair of royal dignitaries observing knights jousting and mock battles provided purely for their entertainment.
The rest of us had found lighters, lit punks or even had small boxes of wooden matches. We had already gone through the arsenal of bottle rockets to divide out evenly amongst us and those were sticking out of back pockets, shirt pockets and sometimes in ponytails to use as a strange sort of makeshift quiver. We were loaded with various “launching” items such as empty plastic 20 oz Mountain Dew bottles, Coke cans, Folger’s Coffee containers and in the case of one cousin, a cleaned out can of Bush’s Baked Beans. We were locked, stocked and loaded for war.
From the porch, my grandpa’s voice boomed out over the lawn, “Go!”
What followed was chaos as all of us scrambled to run around the yard seeking cover in the forms of Eucalyptus Trees, a propane tank, an overturned Radio Flyer, a family member’s vehicle which had been parked too close to the perimeter to avoid escaping the onslaught, an old storage shed and large round hay bales. Of course, the task of finding cover was exacerbated by the fact that one had to load a bottle rocket- or two if one was devious enough, into the launching containers, fumble with a match or lighter midstride to ignite the firework and aim at the back of an unsuspecting, retreating family member.
It was difficult, coldblooded, heartless and more fun than I can ever describe.
We ducked, dodged, dived and diverted from our paths as the whizzing little sticks of fury exploded all around us. The war waged on and we were getting depleted of our ammo when across the field I spotted my mother squaring-off to take aim with her Pepsi bottle loaded with a rocket pointed directly at me.
I instantly turned on my heel and ran. There were no cover options immediately available. My only hope was to run and maybe I’d outrun the range of the rocket. So I ran…my legs were burning as I pushed myself to the edge. Suddenly, my legs weren’t the only thing burning as I felt a hot burst of flame square on the right side of my keister. Searing pain erupted from my hindquarters as I heard the loud pop from the exploding firecracker. I went face-down in the dirt as my feet stumbled beneath me.
All around me I could hear laughter erupt from my family members as they rushed to help me up and check on me, and the loudest laugh was coming from the greatest offender-my dear sweet Mama couldn’t contain herself as she tried to hug me and inspect me- did I mention she’s a nurse?- at the same time as laughing at her own achievement of catching her daughter with a “rump-rocket”.
So there ya have it folks, it’s best to play it safe when it comes to fireworks, otherwise accidents a lot worse than a “scorched sit-upon” could happen.
