Now, what’s the point exactly again? You spend a lot of money, and then destroy the items you just bought on purpose? How did this idea ever get through Shark Tank?
“Yes, I have a business proposal. You sell people things made out of paper and gunpowder, and then they self-destruct the first time they’re used.”
“OK, but if you do it more than two times a year, the average consumer will catch on to the scheme.”
So they got with the people who make the American calendar, and set aside two days for exploding things every year. These are July 4 and December 31.
This resulted in trailers popping up everywhere which say in huge misspelled letters, CHEEPEST FARWORKS ANYWHEAR. Cheapest is a word which comes from the same latin root for the word bankrupt. These trailers are up for a solid six weeks prior to explosion day, commonly offering buy one, get one free packages. This is so you can lose the hearing in both ears at the same time, but only pay for one.
Now, there is apparently a law in some states that proprietors can set up the sale of self-destructing goods outside of the six-week period, as in all the time, in permanently fixed buildings as long as they are within a spit and a stick’s throw of a major interstate, and provided they have letters the size of Godzilla which say “World’s Largest Fireworks Stand.” Oh yeah, and they must say, “Last Chance.” Last chance for what? Is this the last chance I will have to blow up? Is this the last chance to spend my inheritance? What is it? I have to know.
Whatever it is, it’s enough pressure to cause my father to blow the inheritance (no pun intended). This is the man that was so cheap, he refused to pay the exorbitant amount of $7.50 per month for garbage pick-up because that translated to an outrageous $1.87 per week. He despised throwing money away by allowing the tiniest soap shard to be dispensed with, and instead gathered all the little pieces until he had enough to melt them back together into a “new” soap cake.
And yet- and yet - when these two days of the year rolled around, he threw money out the window like he was Howard Hughes at a spend-off. When he became too frail to drive to the fireworks stand, he sent a young, trusted friend, Grat, who assisted him with those kind of challenges, to purchase the fireworks. He assured him he would reimburse him for whatever the amount was, but instructed him to buy a big variety. Grat was somewhat nervous about showing him the bill because it didn’t take long to drive the amount up to $257. Dad’s jaws dropped open, and he said, “I can’t believe it; that’s a lot less than I spent last year.” Relief. Followed by a slight concern that an alien had inhabited my dad’s body.
But no real invasion. It’s just part of the show. The show that one year escalated to hysteria and near death experiences. We had gathered in Dad’s back yard as was the tradition. A couple of the guys in the family were in charge of the lighting-the-fuses part, but I don’t believe they had ever graduated from Smokey the Bear’s safety course. This is where the grand finale was grander than anyone could have imagined. Just before the intertwined fuses of every breed of explosive known to man or chemistry lab reached the gunpowder, the entire pack fell over on its side facing the helpless crowd of us. We were running for cover and hitting the concrete like Al Capone had appeared with a machine assault rifle. My brother became a human bullet-proof vest for my father who could neither dive nor dash at this point. I thought it would never end. My nephew was strutting around like James Bond after the ordeal because his wedding band had deflected a missile. And my sister, who wouldn’t answer our calls, and whom we thought must surely be wounded beyond response, had missed the whole thing on a quick trip to the bathroom.
Not everyone can have a show so grand. Truthfully, we have struggled to recreate the festivities now that Dad has passed away. My brother-in-law and nephew staged a fireworks show this past New Year’s Eve. The wind worked against them, the products were substandard, so that half of them fizzled instead of exploding, and the sky lantern did little more than skip along the lawn. Rather than disappoint the children, the sister who previously had escaped the war zone show, now redeemed herself by saving the sleepy one. She lit a couple of sparklers and took center stage twirling them in the dark as if she were suddenly competing for the poster girl for High School Majorettes Anonymous. I truly think she pulled a groin muscle, but we were all delighted and could probably have sold enough tickets, had we known, to pay for a new truck for the Volunteer Fire Department which, you know, we seem to need on two conspicuous days of the year.
When all is said and obliterated, there’s just something fun about blowing things up. Unless you’re under four. Or you’re a dog. These two classes of individuals are completely terrorized. We try to console the little ones by holding them tight in a blanket and cupping our hands over their ears. The dogs prove to be a little more of a challenge, as their fight or flight instinct is pronounced.
Unfortunately at camp one year, the annual stray showed up for love and affection, but on the night of the fireworks show, we found out he was definitely inclined to fight over flight. He had watched in terror as the bottle rockets exploded in the sky until, finally, he’d had enough. As the cost-more-than-college-tuition finale was lit, he gulped big and made the move of his lifetime. He darted toward the enemy militia, for the sake of all his beloved campers, tackled it headlong, and heroically backflipped into the lake with it where it expired pathetically with a little splash of a eulogy.
I haven’t even touched on the great fire of 2006 or the two-hour fireworks birthday bash in which not even one fuse would cooperate to stay lit in the Delta winds, or someone’s great idea to have a fireworks show on a barge -- I mean, what could happen, right? There’s water all around.
Famous last words. Next significant semi-annual event, can we skip a step, and just go ahead and set fire to the back yard?
From If Mama Ain't Happy by Celine Sparks, 2022
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