Fourth of July
Photo by Chris F
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"For the love of God," Mom hollered, trying to grab my snow cone. Sticky rainbow syrup splattered her white Bermuda shorts and dribbled down her legs.
My heart hammered in my chest, echoing the distant thump of mortars. I knew flashes and explosions would follow soon. I buried my face in Mom’s bony lap, syrup sticking my cheek to her skin. My fingers dug so deep into my ears they nearly touched my eardrums. I clenched my eyes until sparks danced behind my lids and my eyeballs ached. I wanted to disappear into the cool shadows under the bleachers, safe and unseen.
Kabooooommmm!
Red chrysanthemums, green peonies, and yellow diadems exploded in the moonless sky over Memorial Stadium.
Every summer, as the Fourth of July approached, I dreaded it more than getting a tetanus booster.
It all started when Red Devil Fireworks booths sprouted across Oildale after school let out for the summer. Mom took us to the Beardsley PTA booth in the Alpha Beta parking lot on Airport Drive, next to the baseball field where Brother played Little League. He only lasted a couple of weeks because he threw like a girl.
I stood next to Mom and Brother at the booth window, feeling jittery. I kept thinking I’d jump if some kid lit a firecracker behind me.
"Mom, I know what I'm talking about," Brother argued. "I'm telling you. Buy the Super Deluxe All-American Patriotic Pack! It has everything I need!"
Brother studied the Red Devil Fireworks flyer for weeks. He knew exactly how many rockets, fountains, cones, screamers, witch's cauldrons, sparklers, and firecrackers he needed for a dazzling Fourth of July display in Happy Acres.
"The only thing I’m paying for are sparklers," Mom said.
"Mom," he whined.
But honestly, Brother would've set Happy Acres on fire.
“Besides, we’re going to Memorial Stadium to watch the fireworks show, like we always do,” she said.
A familiar knot tightened in my gut. The Fourth of July was coming fast, like a train.
Mom bought two boxes of sparklers and tucked them in her purse. She didn't want us sneaking to light them off unsupervised.
Brother wadded up his fireworks flyer and threw it on the ground. Leaning into the booth window, he asked, "How much for a box of black snakes? Gimme a couple rolls of gunpowder caps too." A sweaty man inside took Brother's lawn-mowing money and gave him change.
I didn’t mind black snakes because they were quiet and didn’t do much. Once lit, the tiny plug grew into an eight-inch snake of ash. Wiggling and squirming on the sidewalk, they left trails of soot that Mom had to wash off with the garden hose. But what bothered me were gunpowder caps.
Brother had a cap gun collection. His favorite, a replica of the Lone Ranger's silver Colt pistol, was kept loaded in a brown, tooled leather holster under his bed.
I had to be the Indian or the robber when we played together. Brother chased me inside our tiny fenced yard, shooting his cap gun at my head in the name of the law. He was relentless. Sometimes I think he enjoyed torturing me. I’d bolt up the trailer steps, go inside, and lock the sliding glass door behind me.
"What's going on out there?" Mom peered over the guppy tank from the kitchen, slapping hamburger patties between her palms as she made our dinner.
“Nothing.” I poured a glass of tap water and drank it in one breath.
“Would you like some meat?"
I nodded eagerly. Mom pinched off a quarter-sized piece of raw hamburger and rolled it into a ball, calling it steak tartare, a French delicacy. I liked it better than Spam.
"Either go outside or go to your room,” she said. “There's too much commotion around here." Mom couldn't see Brother but I could. He stood outside on the steps with a loaded pistol, his slobbery lips pressed to the glass like a suckerfish, mouthing, "I'm going to kill you." I stuck out my tongue and went to my room.
Brother had cap bombs too; miniature atom bombs like the ones dropped on Hiroshima in World War II. He'd put a gunpowder cap in the warhead, stand on the trailer steps, and let it slip right next to me on purpose while I played jacks. My heart nearly stopped with every explosion.
On the first of July, Mom brought out the sparklers from the PTA booth and turned off the porch light on a warm, quiet evening. Brother and I entertained while Mom and Dad sat in the director's chairs, sipping martinis and smoking cigarettes.
I didn't mind sparklers. There were no loud booms or sudden flashes of light to worry about. But they stung when sparkles fell on my bare skin. Dad always lit mine with his silver lighter because he didn't want me to burn my fingertips. While the crickets sang in the ivy, I drew figure eights on a canvas of darkness until bedtime.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I felt the mortars launch and braced myself.
"You're the biggest, whiniest baby I know," Brother said. His voice was muffled but I heard him. I turned my head and peeked. He looked up at the sky for the rocket trails, smacking his bubble gum with his mouth open.
Kaboooooommmm!
The next explosion jolted me, startling Mom.
"That's it," she said, pushing me aside. "Sit up. This is ridiculous. Fireworks. Thunder. Lightning. Sonic booms. For the love of God, there is nothing to be afraid of!"
At that moment, I felt exposed and helpless, like the mole dug up on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. My stringy hair was a mess of sticky rainbow syrup, tears, and sweat. My cat-eye glasses dangled from my snotty nose. Like that mole, I had nowhere to hide. That’s probably where my nervous blinking habit started.
Millions of fiery stars rained from heaven onto wooden shake rooftops behind the stadium. Firetrucks screamed in the distance as the audience clapped. The air was thick with smoke and stunk like rotten eggs. And then the stadium went dark and silent.
A sparkly shape of George Washington's head illuminated. It whizzed on a high wire across the football field as “America the Beautiful” blared over loudspeakers.
I didn't mind ground fireworks because there were no explosions, and I could squint enough to see them. My favorite was Niagara Falls, a spectacular ten-foot pyrotechnic cascade of silver sparkles pouring onto the Renegade football field like an unbridled waterfall. That was the only thing I opened my eyes for.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
I cowered during the grand finale of "The Star-Spangled Banner." The stadium erupted, and the sky lit up with vibrant colors, perfectly in sync with the music.
“That was the best fireworks show I think I’ve ever seen,” Dad said on the drive home. “It made me feel proud to be an American, and I can’t wait until next year!”
I stared out the car window and watched the streetlights flicker by, trying not to cry. Why couldn’t I feel proud like Dad or calm like Brother?
"Next year? Over my dead body," Mom whispered, her voice barely rising over the hum of the engine.
After that, we never went to another Fourth of July fireworks show, and I was perfectly fine with that.
