Placing the gear lever in reverse, I glanced at the driver-side mirror making sure all was clear. The wipers uttered a loud stuttering noise and dull thump as the windshield cleared. Rolling backward, I pressed the gas petal and glanced forward. All too late, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of a parked vehicle in the passenger mirror. It was a huge rusty old farm truck with a missing headlight. Panicking, I slammed on the brake and . . . BOOM!
Jolting, I sprang into a sitting position! “WOW!! What was that?” I spouted in a half dreaming stammer. The thunder clap rumbled off into the distance. Rolling over to her side of the bed, my wife groaned a gentle “Go back to sleep, it’s just a rainstorm.”
I looked around the bedroom. Lightning multi-flashed like paparazzi at a celebrity ball. A brilliant crackling lightning bolt hit close to the house. I counted the seconds to determine the storms distance. Finally the thunder resounded. Groggily I commented, “Seven seconds. That’s about seven miles to center.” The lightning was as intense as the reverberating thunder. Focusing, my eyes caught the red LED glow of the clock on the nightstand. I thought, “Oh man, 3:35 in the morning!”
Returning to a reclining position, what may have been seconds felt like hours before I fell asleep, but this time it was no dream. Rather, it was a recollection of my younger days. My older brother Ron had shipped out with the troops for their tour in Viet Nam. Dad was at work and Mom was house cleaning. I was a fifteen year old rummaging around the back porch cabinets looking for some illusive item.
Moving things around on the shelf, I spied a vaguely familiar pasteboard box in the very back of the cabinet. Rearranging a few items, I freed the container from its confines. To my surprise and pleasure I’d found the remains of a gross of Ron’s M-80’s he’d purchased for last years’ Fourth celebration. Of the two boxes only a half gross box survived.
As I gazed upon the find, I felt like a beggar who’d uncovered a king’s ransom. Yet, this newly discovered treasure trove presented a rather awkward moral dilemma; should I push them back on the shelf or “borrow” a few? I mean, who would know if a few went missing. And they ARE in the family, just not mine personally. Besides, he’d never miss them.
My adolescent mind rationalized with my reasoning side. “It’s almost the 4th of July. You should see if they are still good.” Suddenly, my shoulder devil protagonist butted in, “I bet they aren’t as loud as they were when he was still here. You should try one. Ron won’t care.” Then my right shoulder angel appeared. Without hesitation he firmly stated, “They aren’t yours. It would be stealing. Put them back.” I knew he was right but my weaker side gave in and I commandeered a half dozen.
With the select six in my greedy grasp, I still struggled. “What will Mom say if she finds out?” But like all shoulder devil protagonists, justification for acquiring the ill-gotten booty only needed a simple nudge to win its’ case. Miraculously, a couple left over firework punks materialized.
The hook was set as was my mind. Clutching them in my fist, I exited out the back door and headed for the barn about 60 feet from the house. I entered the workshop and found dad’s brass blow torch. He always kept a few matches with it so I was set.
Walking out to the gravel drive in front of the barn door, I laid out my arsenal; six M-80’s, two punks and the small book of matches. I stuffed five of the mini-dynamite sticks in my front jean pocket, slid the second punk to one side away from the remaining incendiary and, grasping the other punk, removed a match from the book.
With match in hand, I recalled seeing some actor in a movie position the match between the cover and the sandpaper striker pad. Then, with one hand, he pressed the flammable sandwich together and quickly jerked out the match with the other hand. With the elements of friction and combustible materials, Poof! The match head exploded into glowing flame, just like in the movie!
Pleased with my newly perfected technique in flameography, I lit the punk. Smoke ascended momentarily like a smudge pot but soon revealed the hot orange glowing embers of the punk tip. Now for the detonation.
Approaching cautiously, I crouched before the solitary stub. The green twisted fuse glistened in the mid-morning light as it filtered through the overhanging trees. The red casing with black printing “M-80” begged enticingly for attention. Slowly, methodically, I glanced over my shoulder to plan my escape route for viewing distance. Returning my vision to the sole candidate, I cautiously extended the glowing punk tip toward the fuse.
At first nothing happened, no smoke, no sizzle, no nothing! I moved it closer. Instantly sparks flew. The wick was lit! I jumped into running stance, turned on my heels and bolted for the clearing a few feet away.
Arriving at my pre-planned viewing spot I turned and stared. A little smoke, a few sparks, a small flame, and then nothing. Standing stock still while holding my breath I gazed on and . . . BBOOOOOOMMMM!!
Windows rattled on neighboring houses, birds scatted in every directions, leaves waved, and, as the smoke cleared, I noticed all the sand within five feet of the detonation spot had vanished. The war zone was now like a silent tomb. The concussion made my ears ring like tornado sirens.
I remained motionless as if in shock for an undetermined amount of time. Suddenly the silence was broken with voices coming from behind. The ringing in my ears obscured any reasonable attempts at voice recognition. I turned and looked. There stood a couple of our next-door-neighbor’s children, Sammy, age 10 and Ruth Ann, age 13.
The arriving itinerant chorus proclaimed, “What are you doing?”
Still stunned, I proudly retorted “I just set off one of Ronnie’s M-80’s!”
Ruth Ann, eyes wide and glistening with excitement, squealed “Do another one!”
“Yeah!” echoed Sammy.
“Sure.” I replied, embracing my newly acquired celebrity status. Expertly, I instructed my audience, “We’ll need to step back a lot further. I was standing way to close and my ears are still ringing.”
With bolder confidence we retreated another twenty feet away from my current observation post. “There, this should do it.” I explained. “Now, wait here and I’ll light the next one.”
Cooperatively, they replied “OK.”
I trotted back to the detonation location and set up my next firework. As before, I measured my escape route from over my shoulder, extended the lit punk to the fuse and watched till it sizzled. As a spark flew, so did I. But I had a surprise waiting. My young admirers had been overcome by curiosity and, with my attentions elsewhere, I stumbled into Sam and Ruth. Chaos ensued!
“RUN!” I screamed.
In a mad scramble we retreated to our new location. Just as we turned, “BBOOOOMMM!”
Again, the windows shook and leaves settled. The residual concussion swept our hair back. Then, once again, silence mastered the moment. I looked down at my protégés. Eyes were wide and mouths gaped as their jaws dropped. Even with our hands over our ears, the ringing continued.
Slowly, Sammy commented, “Wow! That was really loud.”
At this point, Ruth Ann turned to me with ebbing tears in her blue eyes and burbled a somber “Bye.” Then she scurried back to her house like a rat abandoning a sinking ship.
Wisdom shouted “That’s all folks!” but where two boys reside . . . there’s only half a brain and it proclaimed “Just one more!”
As if a telepathic connection had occurred, Sammy and my eyes met. “One more?” I asked.
Unhesitatingly, he responded “Oh, yea! You bet!”
“OK, but let’s do it different this time.” I studied the topography, and distance. With all the data in, I threw caution to the wind and confidently stated, “I’ll light it here facing that direction and throw it behind me over my shoulder. It will fly that way and we will run this way.”
It seemed logical to his 10 year old brain. And with my newly gained vast knowledge and experience base of such things as these, I proceeded. I grasped the lit punk, searched my pocket for one of the four remaining mini-bombs and positioned it in my hand. Then, lit the fuse, tossed it with a hearty backward “over –the-shoulder” lunge and headed away from the presumed not-so-distant target area with lightning speed.
Thinking we’d adequately distanced ourselves, we simultaneously stopped and turned. But no sparks or smoke was in sight.
“Where’d it go?” Sammy asked.
“I don’t know” I replied, quickly scanning the horizon. “It must have gone out.”
As the words drifted innocently from my lips, we heard a sizzle and thud just inches from our feet. The “boomer” I had presumably launched to the target zone was intercepted by a nearby over-hanging tree branch and was returned post haste. We had become the detonation zone!
With no time to run we stood our ground, braced ourselves and . . . “KKKAAAA-BBBOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!
The tornado siren effect on our ears had been morphed into intense Air Raid Sirens! As the smoke and dust clear a sullen silence fell over the terrain. Even the ants and earthworms had run for cover.
A gentle breeze carried small bits of leave and debris away as the red casing fragments of the M-80 twirled at our feet. Wordlessly, Sammy, covered in smoke, sand and disgrace, turned and retreated to his house.
As for my overzealous shoulder devil protagonist, the tumbling red paper fragments were all that remained of him. It would be a long time before I would hold counsel with his insights. As for my right shoulder angel, he remained the silent gentleman. The lesson would be forever etched in my memory. And as for Mom, she was probably hunkered down in the cellar armed with her Bible praying that Armageddon would soon pass.
Dutifully, and bearing a measure of chagrin, I quietly returned the remaining ordinances to their rightful half-gross box in the back of the cupboard. Nothing was ever mentioned of the incident again. At least, that is, until now.
And so I half dream . . . smiling.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © July 2017
