(James Cagney, 1942)
The fourth of July, it ain't what it used to be. When I was a kid it was the quintessential summer holiday. It was the picnic on Pill Hill, the area where all the doctors lived, complete with burgers, hot dogs, chips, deviled eggs, lemonade, hand-churned ice cream and watermelon so juicy there was a continuous red river running down your neck. After dinner there'd be fireworks in the back yard and then we'd all head out to the city park to hear a band concert and watch more fireworks. Could it be any more Norman Rockwellian? I don't think so.
I miss those crazy black tabs that turned into the head of Medusa when lit and left black circles all over the pavement. I miss doing extra chores to pad the fireworks fund. One summer my dad paid us a quarter an hour to paint the back of the house. You could get a TON of stuff for three bucks. I miss the smell of punks and the absolute terror that comes from lighting blackcats in your hand (our parents were pretty lax when it came to fireworks safety - really any kind of safety; when I was a toddler riding in the car I'd stand on the seat next to my dad and put my arm around him, no seat belt . . . ).
One summer when I was about 13 we all went over to Myrtle's house on the Fourth. Her name was Marilyn but my parents didn't want us calling her by her first name, as that was a serious breach of the respecting the elders rule, so we made up this silly nickname. This, by the way, is the same lady who, while driving us kids around in downtown Jefferson City, slammed on her brakes and yelled, "There's Squeaky!" the town's most famous prostitute. We all about broke our neck to get a good look at her. It was pretty dang funny. Anyway, she had two kids that were the same age as my brother and me and she worked for my dad. We'd known each other forever, and her parents, too, Grammy and PaPa. There was a whole herd of kids there and we were all horsing around. I had a sparkler and was waving it around, probably writing my name in the sky - right over the full box of highly combustible fireworks. Well, all of the sudden, the box started sputtering and hissing and before we knew it the fireworks were flying everywhere. PaPa, who was clear across the yard sitting in a lawn chair with a blanket wrapped around him jumped up, ran over and stomped out the fury. I was COMPLETELY mortified and locked myself in the bathroom and refused to come out. It took encouragement from Ricky Hempe (only the cutest boy on the whole block) to make me finally show my face again. We call Myrtle almost every year on the fourth and laugh, laugh, laugh. I still get a tiny bit embarrassed about the whole thing.
So, anybody got any odd jobs? I feel the need for some Roman candles, fountains and cherry bombs.
No comments:
Post a Comment