That, my friends, is the sound of a very distinctive holiday: the Fourth of July.
Sure, we’ve got more important ones. Like Thanksgiving, that glorious celebration of food, football and silently wondering, “How can I possibly be related to these people?” The thing most of us are truly thankful for is the sight of our relatives backing out of the driveway.
Then there’s Christmas, which isn’t so much a holiday as it is a two-month season of overspending, followed by 10 months of apologizing to your Visa card.
But the Fourth of July is different because we celebrate our country’s independence with fireworks. Yes, New Year’s Eve has fireworks, too, but the holiday most associated with them is July 4. There’s even a song about it: “The rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air.”
You know Independence Day is getting close when fireworks stands start popping up like Dollar General stores.
I’ve never understood fireworks vendors – it’s the only business where mental instability is a marketing strategy. There’s Crazy Bill’s, Insane McCain’s, Nutty Norman’s and no telling how many more. I’ve never seen it anywhere else.
“Hey Bob, who did you say prepared your income taxes?”
“I took them down to Wacky Willie’s.”
“I hope you don’t get audited.”
I was about 12 years old when I was allowed to light real fireworks. Not those sissy sparklers, although those things get hot enough to be used for welding. I’m talking Black Cat firecrackers, bottle rockets and Roman candles — the gateway drugs of pyrotechnics.
For beginners, Black Cat firecrackers were the gold standard. Most kids never lit just one or two. It was much more satisfying to ignite the entire pack at once. I usually taped them to some poor little green plastic army man. He served his country bravely, but not for very long.
As teenagers, we graduated to Cherry Bombs and M-80s. Not the watered-down versions they sell today. The ones we bought were stronger than a hamper full of dirty gym socks. Every one of my high school buddies swore they contained one-sixteenth of a stick of dynamite.
I don’t know if that was true, but here’s what I do know: they could destroy an unpopular teacher’s mailbox.
Of course, we kept quiet about this sort of activity because everyone claimed damaging a mailbox was a federal offense. Not that I ever heard of anybody actually going to prison for it, but can you imagine?
“Yo, what you in for? Armed robbery? Car theft? Did you off somebody?”
“Nope. Assaulting a mailbox with a deadly weapon. Blew it clean off the post with an M-80. Thought I got away with it but the doorbell camera got me.”
Teenagers and fireworks can be a dangerous combination. One of my old high school friends learned that lesson the hard way.
Byron and three other buddies came to pick me up in his mom’s Chevrolet Impala. When they arrived and I opened the car door, I was greeted by the unmistakable smell of burned gunpowder.
“What in the world did y’all do in here?” I asked.
“Barry can tell you,” Byron replied.
From the back seat came Barry’s voice, dripping with pain.
“I was lighting Cherry Bombs and tossing them out the window. But, the back windows don’t roll all the way down. One bounced off the glass and landed right between my legs.”
I gasped.
I’ve nearly stepped on a water moccasin. I’ve ridden a roller coaster perched on top of a 40-story building. I’ve performed stand-up comedy in front of 10,000 people.
Every one of those experiences was terrifying. But, none of them can compare to the terror of watching a lit Cherry Bomb land on Sly and the Family Stones.
Barry continued.
“I managed to flip it into the floorboard right before it went off.”
Then he pulled up his pant leg.
It looked like half-cooked hamburger meat. Shades of gray and purple surrounded an open wound where fabric used to be. The pants leg itself had been transformed into a collection of burnt threads.
Still, I knew he was lucky. Had that Cherry Bomb exploded a few inches higher, Barry might still be singing soprano with the Vienna Boys Choir.
“We’ve got a plan,” Byron announced. “We’re gonna tell his mom and dad a dog attacked him.”
Never mix immaturity with low-grade explosives.
As an adult, the whole concept of fireworks looks different than it did when you were a kid.
As a child, fireworks were magic. The sparks, the colors, the noise, the smell. When you lit that fuse, you felt like you were harnessing the power of Zeus himself.
As a grown up, fireworks mean putting up with the neighbor who spent a week’s pay on a grocery sack full of incendiary devices, and intends to detonate every one of them until 2 o’clock in the morning. Every time another explosion jolts you awake, you find yourself wondering whether this guy has to work tomorrow.
At the first bang, my dogs dive under the bed and shake like paint mixers. I have to use about half a bottle of CBD oil — and then I give some to the dogs.
The next morning, Facebook fills up with posts that read:
“Lost cat. Answers to the name Fluffy. Last seen during last night’s mortar barrage.”
So, now my role in fireworks has changed. I don’t light them. I don’t tape them to army men. I don’t blow up mailboxes. I just sit on the porch, watch the sky light up and hope nobody gets hurt doing something stupid.
Because I know exactly what that looks like.
Joe Hobby is a barbecue-loving comedian from Alabama who wrote for Jay Leno for many years. Find more of Joe’s stories on his blog: www.mylifeasahobby.blogspot.com. Follow him on Facebook at Joe Hobby Comedian-Writer.
