Walking through a fireworks stand was magical. Mom and Dad would pile all of us into the station wagon and head to Crazy Bobs, Crazy Kens, Crazy Mikes, Crazy Pops, Crazy Toms, Crazy Indians, or whoever the closest psychologically deranged person selling explosive delights happen to be. I guess it’s against the law for normal sane people to sell fireworks.
We were always on a tight budget, usually $20 or less, so we had to shop accordingly. This meant we could never afford one of those awesome-looking value packs with the huge rockets inside. So we’d gather up as many Black Cat firecrackers, whistling chasers, bottle rockets, and at least one Roman Candle to round out the list.
Dad would always scorch a few burgers and hotdogs on a cheap charcoal grill and Mom would always make homemade ice cream. Everyone took turns cranking the handle slowly and adding ice and salt to the wooden bucket. Along with fresh watermelon, it was one of the best days for food in the Wooten household.
But we couldn’t wait until it got dark so we could light one of those slow-burning sticks the crazy guy at the fireworks place always threw in with our order, and set off our small cache of gunpowder-filled spectacles. We’d have one glass coke bottle and my two sisters and I would take turn lighting bottle rockets.
The hardest thing was pacing ourselves since we never had a huge inventory. But oh what fun. After all the little stuff was gone, Dad and dad alone would shoot off the Roman Candle. It was dangerous after all, and even had a warning on the side that read, “Stick in ground and light. Do not hold in your hand.”
Of course Dad wasn’t one to be bothered with instructions, so he’d light it while holding it and point it at the sky. He’d make circular motions as green, red, and blue balls fired into the night air. It was fun times for sure.
After the last colorful ball fizzled away high above us, we knew it was over. Just the darkness and clouds of smoke remained. There was nothing left to do but watch the horizon as other family’s fireworks exploded above the tree line.
Still, it’s one of my favorite childhood memories and certainly better than my 4th of July routine for the last 13 years. My oldest dog, Kiki, is terrified of thunder and even more so of fireworks, so my evening is spent holding her and telling her it will be over soon and that it will be a whole year before the crazy people set up their wonderful stands again.