My Brother Jack was born on July 3rd and
he and I loved fireworks. We both wanted to be soldiers and practiced war our
entire childhood. Because of our obsession, my favorite holiday, and Brother
Jack’s, was and is the Fourth of July. The one I remember best is the first one
that I can remember.
While growing up in small-town Vivian, there were no City
ordinances barring the use of fireworks. Every manner of explosives was sold
including M-80s and two-inchers. Jack and I are both lucky to have all our
digits as we later experimented with everything we could strike a match too.
My friend Timmy Jon and I even mixed our own batch of gunpowder
and almost burned up the house with it. The first Fourth that I can remember,
however, we made do with firecrackers, bottle rockets, sparklers, and Roman
candles.
On July 4, my mom and dad would buy us about ten dollars worth of
fireworks. Ten dollars doesn’t sound like much but you could pop lots of
firecrackers for that amount in the sixties. We always began the fireworks as
soon as it was dark enough.
I don’t remember my age but I was old enough to feel the
excitement of impending danger. With our dad’s help, we began lighting
sparklers, popping firecrackers and launching one bottle rocket after another.
We soon got down to the good stuff.
‘Hold it in the air and shake it,” My dad directed as he lit my
first-ever Roman candle.
I can still remember the percussion and slight recoil as
incandescent flame burst from the coiled-paper barrel of the explosive device.
I could not count at the time but I had a seat-of-the-pants feel for how many
fiery rounds the candle contained. When it was over, I held the warm rod in my
hand, inhaling acrid smoke and burned powder - an odor I will never forget.
My redheaded Brother Jack was next at bat and he had mischief in
mind before my dad ever lit the candle’s fuse. My mother was standing behind us
in the open door of our house. Soon as the candle started spitting fire, Jack
began pointing it at anything that caught his fancy - a tree, the family car,
me, and finally toward the open door of the house.
Dodging the oncoming fireball, my mom screamed and jumped off the
porch. Jack put at least three fireballs through the house, luckily catching
nothing on fire. When he finally threw down the spent Roman candle my dad just
shook his head, grabbed the remaining fireworks and walked into the house. Mom
followed him, but not before unloading verbally on Jack.
Mom and Dad did not say much about the incident, giving Brother
Jack the benefit of the doubt in believing that inexperience and lack of good
sense caused the accident. After living in close proximity to him until I was
fifteen, I know better. He went to sleep that night giggling about scaring my
parents and getting away with it.
The 4th of July means a lot more to me than just fireworks and hot
dogs and we should all reflect on the sacrifices this wonderful holiday
immortalizes. Still, my favorite holiday remains July 4 and the one I remember
best is the first one that I can remember.
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Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.
