Sparklers

As girls, Scottie and I were not allowed to fire off any fireworks. When celebrating New Year's Eve with our cousins, we were the only sixteen-year-olds holding sparklers. We would just stand there. Maybe sometimes we would run and circle the sparklers in the air, but.......we were still just sixteen-year-old's holding sparklers.

My husband (whose mother was oddly permissive in this one area), however, was so allowed that he accidentally bombed the glass from his bedroom window. Our own children were raised somewhere in the middle, but rather closer to Allen's way. Only in a more controlled environment owing to his early brush with danger.

Each year, Allen increased his firework display exponentially. And when I use the word exponent, I am not lying as others do. The show he eventually worked up to was a homemade, synchronized getup that caused the neighbors to gasp. On the lead-up, he planned, sawed, glued and duct-taped together every tube, cylinder, wick, bin, and pedestal he could ferret. On the night of, he stationed every son, nephew, and cousin at their own firing station, spending hours setting up the perfect launch line. We set up the camera at sunset, and I filmed the whole extravaganza from behind the creek, but still very close to the action.

Adding to the excitement were unexpected fires, misfires, and a small explosion wherefrom a thirteen-year-old Luke dove for cover, screaming "SHIIIIIITTTTT!!!" As all the teenagers laughed, he threw back in, smiling like a newborn man. There was so much smoke and yelling, that ground zero resembled, to me, an actual battle, with my husband playing general. His mother sat far away on the back deck, watching and clapping and supporting and grinning at all the men she had wrought.

And the display in the air was awesome too.