Daddy
holds a Roman candle at arm’s length as colored balls of fire fly upward into
the night sky. In the background, I hear Mother’s plea, “Be careful, Wilbur!” She’s
probably why all I ever got to buy were sparklers, but they were just my speed
and so pretty!
The
boys next door weren’t allowed to shoot firecrackers after Bill tried to smoke
one. I wasn’t around when he pulled that stunt, but we figured he had learned
his lesson and felt sorry for them missing out on all the pop and bang.
Fourth
of July preparations are big doings for little boys clutching dollar bills
while they survey the offerings at the Fireworks stand. How many bottle rockets
for a dollar? How much are the cherry bombs and firecrackers? Starting with my
brother, I’ve watched three generations go through the ritual.
“Uncle
Sam’s birthday calls for a cake,” Grandma tells the little girl perched on the
counter with her eye on the rich batter swirling inside the bowl. I know from
experience, she’s wondering how much will be left for her to
scrape. I can assure her, plenty.
I
feel the sweat trickle down my back and the hard ground beneath my bottom as we
wait in the sweltering heat with half the state of Arkansas for nightfall. But
the thrill of that first starburst lighting up the sky as the Arkansas Symphony
Orchestra plays its heart out somehow makes the wait worthwhile.
Our
extended family acquires a new exclamation as a jubilant six-year-old boy
greets every fireworks display with Yippee-Haacha! Now he has children of his
own, and it’s still our favorite shout of joy. 
Labels: Fireworks, Fourth of July, Independence Day, Uncle Sam