“There’s a snake in my boot”

Hooray! It’s high summer. Time for festivals, snow cones, ice cream, baseball games the Fourth of July, parades and all of those wonderful activities that call to mind the summers of your childhood. No, I didn’t forget fireworks. I just saved the best for last.

Those small-town summer festivals are terrific. We went to the Pork Rind Heritage Festival in Harrod, Ohio, a couple of weeks ago. It was great! We bought three large bags of fried-on-the-spot pork rinds in three different flavors—crispy, regular and barbecue—for six dollars. They didn’t have fireworks that I know of, but they shot off the Civil War canon every fifteen minutes.

A few years ago, we watched the City of Louisville’s fireworks display from the banks of the Ohio River. They discharge twenty minutes worth of non-stop fireworks from barges in the middle of the river. It was great!

Last Saturday night we caught the fireworks while passing through Myton, Utah, from the car. They were set off on the sidewalk in front of the rest rooms at the city park. We know that only because Mr. B. was looking for the rest rooms, and during the extended lull before the finale we got a little closer to the fireworks than we realized. It was great!

We got in on some pretty good fireworks in Logan, Utah, a few years ago. They are fired from the middle of Aggie Stadium, but we watched them from the cemetery. Before that, though, we had a few fireworks of our own. Figuratively and literally.

Everyone knows that fireworks are dangerous. They must have some redeeming value, however, because even in Logan (the safest city in the United States) you can still buy ten-second Roman candles, snakes, poppers, and of course, sparklers—all without finishing Hazmat training or getting a hot work permit.

One grandson was taking no chances though. He suited up for Butterbean family fireworks by putting on his boots. They looked just like the !4” Ranger Extreme Rubber Firefighting boots except they were smaller and had frog eyes on top. Never mind that he was wearing his shorts instead of Nomex Assault Gear Turnout pants. All the other kids were foolishly wearing flip-flops with their shorts for which indiscretion they were duly warned.

The dads assembled their candles, lighters, and punks, while the moms placed their chairs well away from ground zero which kept relocating and so did the chairs. The kids surged backward as the parents yelled “stand back” and forward as the dads held each piece to the igniter.

In an order that resembled mayhem, each “firework” was finally lit, exploded, and enjoyed with obligatory “oohs and ahs.” The kid in the boots was joining in the festivities with the rest, except that he couldn’t jump up and down so easily. So far, so good.

In any quality pyrotechnic show, the sparklers are saved for last. That is because the dads are more interested in big firepower than in little sparks. The kids love the sparklers because they finally get to do something besides watch.

So the sparklers were passed out like dealing cards and a few of them were finally lit. The kids with their lit sparklers were darting around like overexcited fireflies. The sparks were bouncing off their bare feet and legs, and they didn’t mind the little prickles much.

All was well until the Future Chief of the Fire Department dropped a piece of hot wire from his defective sparkler into his boot where it didn’t bounce unless he did. By the time someone figured out that his yelling was for some reason other than hyperactivity, he had a pretty good burn. Something to forever remember The Fourth and fireworks by. A memory he is sure to cherish.

And when he does fireworks with his kids, he will be able to show them the scar on his foot, next to the strap on his flip-flop, and scare the heck out of them. And if he ever lets them light sparklers, he can say, “My grandma and I think that sparklers belong in the same category as Red Ryder BB Guns.”