Twenty Pounds of Good Times

Since I do not much care to talk about the residency business, or rather I can tolerate only so much of my own complaining, I will instead.... reminisce? For when I have Alzheimer's. (Or, if I am so fortunate, just regular old senile dementia.)

First, stories with fireworks.

Or, alternatively, a you-probably-had-to-be-there story.

My family and extended families exploded out from California sometime in the early 1990s. Before that time the various cousins and grandparents and what have you hung out rather regularly. At least when it came to the holidays. Once people started moving, though, things changed. We saw each other once or twice a year in a good year. So when one New Year's came around and two of my cousins from California came out to visit us in Arkansas there was reason for celebration. Specifically celebration with black powder and white phosphorus. The end receipts of our firework buying binge totaled some $80+ dollars of a variety of works ranging from bottle rockets to Roman candles, firecrackers to smoke bonds, Piccalo Petes to sunflowers, sparklers, flashers, bangers, zip zang zowzers, and my personal favorite, the Saturn Missile Battery. Our pièce de résistance, however, was a big pipe bomb of a rocket. It was designed, or so the advertisments said, to achieve lift off with great pagentry, release a half dozen plastic paratrooper commandos, and then explode at altitude in a palm shaped shower of flaming heavy metals.

For hours on New Year's Eve we got our jollys from blowing up pieces of our Aunt and Uncle's driveway, and despite all these shenanigans no one was injured. Until we got to the rocket. A bit scared of what exactly it would do, especially if it launched straight into someone's kisser, we were a bit timid in lighting it. My brother, Adam, somehow then got assigned the role. Slowly inching up to the rocket on it's appropriate rocket launching pad (a large sheet of cardboard placed to make cleanup of firework ash easier) he lit it at full reach while we all eagerly watched on from the other corners of the drive way. Once the fuse lit he bolted and ran properly for his life. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to him and the rest of us one of his legs had been firmly stationed on the cardboard launching pad. As he shifted off of it the cardboard base shifted as well and down went the rocket.

For a brief second there was an idle panic as we all yelled or shouted whatever we thought it was appropriate to yell and shout at the time. And for perhaps another second there was consideration of whether there was enough fuse time to go right the missile so that it would go correctly off on its course. But those few seconds passed and a more proper mindset took over. We all fled in whichever direction we thought best which of course was any direction the rocket was not facing. I, myself, a bit gimpy at the time, had to hobble my escape. After a few paces (or hops) the rocket achieved lift off, and we were left to face what fate and physics had in store for us. It shot off much as one would imagine a tipped over rocket to shoot off which is namely fast and straight, but it shortly reached its first obstacle. That being the garage. It ricocheted off the door and surprisingly, quickly then came back at us. For the next several moments it scuttled around the drive way unable to obtain elevation or escape from the gravely textured hold of its surface while we generally ran about losing our minds. At some point, I don't know how long, the rocket finally founds it feet and shot off into who knows what direction to explode harmlessly, hopefully, somewhere in the distance. Its paratrooper payload was scattered off who knows where likely in the backyards of scattered neighbors.

After that our pulses settled and we finished off the evening exploding a few more things here. The next day, clearly not having learned our lessons, we spent the morning throwing fire crackers at one another. It was awesome.