Speaking of Fireworks

Last year was the first 4th I got to spend with MF (who was merely MB at the time). He hadn't relished the joys of "blowing stuff up" since his boyhood. Even then, his was a nanny state and as such the supply of kick ass 'works were few.

I was a little apprehensive sikking my father and brother-in-law on him. They can get a little rowdy. MF is after all, a man about town, cultured and well-read. I was a little afraid that my rustic (read: hick) family would run him off. Especially when Daddy brought out the artillery.

"We got your bottle rockets, 500 of 'em. We got some... let's see here... crackers, Roman candles, fireflies, fountains, tanks, and... oh yeah, about 2 dozen artillery shells," (illegal in most states).

In our state, fireworks are legal -- to an extent. Before the laws were relaxed, even those little pansy sparklers (that I used to play with when I was 4) were illegal. Now you can get shower fountains and snap n' pops, things of that sort. But bottle rockets, Roman candles, and pretty much anything that shoots into the air unassisted, in verboten.

Sooooo my Dad (who grew up on a small farm in the middle of nowhere) generally drives across the state line every year a buys about $250 of heavy-duty illegal contraband. A cookout and 6 beers later, it's showtime!!

WOOOOOHOOOOOOOO!!!

As I said, I was a bit nervous for MF. Would he fit in? Would he have fun? Would he roll his eyes in digust and fake smile his way through the night? I wasn't sure. We set off our little display of 'works (that we had purchased legally at the supermarket like good little citizens). We garnered some mild ooh's and ah's. They were actually very pretty and nicely done. There were some satisfying cracks and pops. General stuff.

Then Dad and the brother-in-law started searching for the PVC pipe and a post hole digger. I looked sidelong at MF. His eyes lit up. I should have known.

What followed was a "hey watch this" free-for all, with men lining up to be the first one to hold the bottle rocket in his hands and light it. *sigh*

We had to sallie lawn chairs for the artillery shells. Protocol goes like this: The shell is about as big as a softball. Light the fuse and drop (quickly) into the pipe (which has been driven sturdily into the ground) and back up. That's "BACK UP". The rise is is several dozen feet into the air and the "boom" is pretty satisfying. The size of the sparkle and fizzle is about that of your smallest firework at a pro display sponsored by the city. Not insubstantial.

At one point in the Roman-candle-bottle-rocket-machismo-ceremony, I repeatedly requested, to no avail, "Can we move these a little further out from the house? Hey, Dad?! Hon? Don't you think..." No one was listening. They'd been deafened by the thrill of exploding gun powder.

Mom was on the lawn chair. Sis and I were chuckling at the little-boy-men and remarking how much fun they were having and... one of the Roman candles and several bottle rockets went awry -- right into the female crowd on the front porch. I think my sister still has the scars from my desperate death grip which dragged her into the house. Mom (with two blown out knees) didn't even attempt an escape. I guess she thought herself the sacrificial July 4th lamb. And my niece, who was 11 months old and sleeping in the house about 15 feet away, didn't even turn over in the middle of all the shelling and squealing. *Smirk* Must be genetic.

In the aftermath, the front yard looked like a war film -- all smokey and hazed with powder. Littered rocket tails and burnt paper had to be picked up for the next week.

On the way home, I asked MF if he had a good time. I had to repeat myself twice. All he did was smile.