Snap! Crackle! Ka-Pow!

Well this Friday is the 4th of July again. A time when we come together as a nation and remember the day when, in 1812, Christopher Columbus and “Curious” George Washington joined forces and stormed the shores of Normandy to destroy the evil forces of the Decepticons. Millions of Americans, in keeping with tradition, will celebrate the holiday the only way they know how…that’s right, by blowing their fingers off with illegal fireworks! Nothing says “liberty” to an American like exercising their right to injure themselves in potentially deadly behavior. How else could you explain helmet laws, seat belt laws, handgun laws, NASCAR, bungee jumping, and Wendy’s "Baconator" sandwich?

While there are pleanty of wacky fun-loving states where fireworks are perfectly legal, I grew up in New York, and if there’s one thing that New Yorkers are known for, it’s their prudent and cautious behavior. Years ago, New York lawmakers wisely decided that instead of having to deal with long lines and pesky regulations it would be much simpler to have their citizens simply drive to another state (Connecticut, Maryland, Pennsylvania, South Carolina…take your pick) and purchase all manner of excessively hazardous fireworks to transport across state lines. Just another inspiring example of Americans in action; showing their true love of liberty by giving a big old F-U to the “man,” and helping their fellow countrymen by earning a 300% profit and implicating them in their own federal offenses.

But no one enjoys the holiday more than the young kids whose parents (or friends’ parents, or cousins or whoever) have exercised their freedom by purchasing randomly selected fireworks from the back of a rental van or a dark garage. These were the lucky kids, envied by all. Their social status the other 364 days of the year didn’t matter; when they had a pack of ladyfingers and a Bic they were everybody’s friend.

To my knowledge, my father rarely made these purchases. I did, however, have an older cousin who kept me very well stocked in my childhood. People say that kids today have no imagination. Well just give a boy of 12 and his friends a pack of bottle rockets and an M-80 and you’ll see all sorts of creative and original ways to have fun. My friend Brian and I used to save our bottle rockets for a game of war, launching them at one another from curtain rods. (This is the same guy I used to have staple-gun wars with as well.) At our family barbecues my cousins and I would blow up paper cups, soda cans, army men, G.I. Joes (those rubber band waists held a ladyfinger very nicely), small stuffed animals, large stuffed animals, badminton birdies and just about any toy that came out of a McDonald’s happy meal.

The most memorable times were, of course, the most frightening (and later hysterical): the time a ladyfinger went off in my Aunt Cira’s hand, the time my cousin Diana had to point out the cops had pulled up as I was trying blast out an anthill, the time my cousin Kevin’s mortar didn’t clear the power lines and detonated just above street level showering the neighbor hood in sparks. There was also the time my cousin Anthony tripped over the curb running from a sparkling fountain; the time I put the wrong end of a smoldering punk into my mouth; the time my friend Dan “the man” Luderman had to light an M-80 for us since everyone else was too scared, then go back and re-light the now shortened, semi-burnt fuse before diving to safety; the time three friends and I tried to light off a firework with a magnifying glass detonating it less than a foot from our faces; the time when, in college, I lit off a pack of gunshots on street in Philadelphia discovering, only after lighting it, that the door was locked I did not have my keys in my pajamas and my roommates, Luke and Matt, thought that my banging and knocking was an angry neighbor so they didn’t open the door and I had to look cool and casual as the neighbors really did come out to see what was going on and I had to act as surprised and in shocked as them as though I was not the guy who was responsible for the pile of blown apart paper on the street directly in front of my stoop…ah the memories.

The morning of July 5th, though, is like scene from a post-apocalyptic movie:

Dawn breaks in silence. A gentle breeze stirs the piles of burnt paper and
debris in the now empty streets. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks. Suddenly
there’s movement near the house; a young boy, then another. Scavengers. They
creep out in silence to pick over the night’s remains. Their little fingers
making a vital search for that treasure among treasures. Yes, there among the
burnt out and spent remains of last night's merriment is the precious desire of
their hearts: the one overlooked firework.

One they can shoot off with no parents around and no cops on the prowl. The one firework they’d be free to blow up wherever and however they choose once again expressing their freedom...and undoubtedly landing themselves in the ER with a burn wound and ringing ears. Badges of war and reminders that this is America, and this is exactly what our forefathers fought for. That and a shorter trade-route to India.

Happy 4th of July everybody.