My most vivid memory of the 4th of July comes from when I was maybe six or seven years old. Our family lived on the outskirts of our small town in New Mexico, and it was tradition to hold what – in my six year old eyes – was an epic fireworks display out in one of our pastures. Our extended family would come over and set up lawn chairs, blankets, and any other form of seating to watch what seemed like an endless rotating door of every type of firework imaginable. And this year had yet to disappoint. My Dad being the emcee of the event, as always, announced that the grand finale was set to commence. This grand finale included what can only be described as one massive circular firework that made my dad’s biceps bulge as he carried it to the perfect spot for lighting such a firework-beast.
It was essentially a huge cheese wheel of a gun-powder-filled explosive device. His plan was to detonate said device; sit back and revel in yet another year of firework mastery. He sent us children away from the lighting area to our lawn chairs, lit his grandest of finales, and took a step back to marvel at his work. But this time, it didn’t go as planned. A roundhouse of bouncing roman-candle-like fireballs came shooting from the disc, Russian roulette-style, but without the Russian as every single caliber was loaded. Screeching fireballs came shooting into the direction of our lawn chairs which sent the peanut gallery sprinting to safety. For me, safety meant across the pasture, through the horse pen, out the gate, across the drive way, through the carport, and onto the back porch. With the screen door acting as my shield. It was downright awesome. Exhilarating. And death-defying at the same time. And the only thought that I can remember going through my head is… “Whooooooooa…my dad is so bitchin’.”
Wishing everyone a happy, and fireball-free holiday weekend!! xo.