Encyclopedia of a Man's Life

Avahlyn

• My daughter’s name…for five months. People treated the name like leftover hotdish. It got mashed and butchered until it was never pronounced correctly except by my wife and me. Now her name is Jazlyn Joy Avahlyn St. John. She is most definitely a “Jazy” little girl, especially when she changes outfits for her dancing and singing routines like Superman in the phone booth. I do a double-take every time I see my little lady; she always seems to be wearing a different outfit, even if she just left the room for a second. Every morning her room is clean, and every night her floor is hidden under a barrage of clothes.

Basketball

• I love the game. It has taken me to the Czech Republic, France, and even to the altar. My wife first met me while I was playing basketball, and she instantly knew I was the better man (see “Joy” for details).

Clint

•  My first name. I was named after Clint Eastwood – true story. I was born one and a half months early, so my parents were not ready with a name. They saw a National Enquirer with Eastwood on the cover. That’s when they decided on my name.

Dad

•  I love my dad. He has taught me how to work hard and provide for my family. It’s hard to believe that I actually got him interested in basketball. In seventh grade, he attended a small handful of my games. By the time I was a senior in college, he didn't miss one. The students at Southeastern University in Florida are still having nightmares of the wild maniac with the painted face and eyes of a demon.

Ears, My

• I have massive ears. Seriously. And one actually sticks out more than the other. Not everyone realizes how big they are, but that is because they are dwarfed by my larger-than-life sized noggin. One-size-fits-all hats don’t fit me, so my ears fit right in, so to speak.

Fashion

• In college, my wardrobe consisted of shorts, pajama pants, Zubaz pants, basketball jerseys, and long/short sleeved t-shirts. That’s it. That all changed when I met my wife. Now my closet is filled with her handpicked choices. I need to buy another pair of Zubaz.

Gilbert, Mr.

• I only met him once, but I took his Hudson Middle School eighth grade language arts teaching position after he retired. I was told by his former co-workers that he was weird. Now they say I sometimes remind them of Mr. Gilbert. Does that mean I am weird? Probably.

Horses

• My parents owned two: Scooter and Skipper. I hated those things. I only rode Scooter once, and I almost got bucked off while my dad was yelling at me. Skipper was like the horses of the Wild West. Keeping him in the pasture was like trying to keep my toddler-aged son away from the toilet: impossible.

Injury

•  On my first day of coaching middle school track in Bloomer, WI, I saw an athlete trip on a hurdle. That may not sound so bad, but tell that to the boy whose forearm was snapped at a 90 degree angle and the gym full of middle schoolers that started screaming and running around like they just saw a murder.

Joy

• My bride. The first time I met her, I knew she was the one for me. The only problem was her boyfriend that wasn’t nearly as cool and hot as me. No problemo.

Karate

• I used to pretend I was the Karate Kid. While in elementary school, Bloomer finally had a karate studio, so my sister and I signed up. During the first karate test, I farted two times during two separate maneuvers. I still scored higher than my sister. She cried. What a baby.

Laughter

• I love to laugh, and I love to make people laugh. One of my life’s greatest achievements was when I won the “Class Clown” and “Best Sense of Humor” awards of my high school graduating class. I am sure my parents were just beaming with pride as other classmates won such awards as “Most Talented,” “Most Likely to Achieve Greatness,” and “Best Student.”

Mom

• I love my mom. She has taught me that strength comes in many forms…unless it is at the Back to the Future ride at Universal Studios. When we got off the ride, her hair looked like Don King and she had peed her pants. I almost did the same when I found out.

Nick

• I love my brother. He will always be my little brother, but it gets harder thinking that way when he is a shade taller than me (don’t tell him I told you) and now consistently beats me in one on one basketball, arm wrestling, running contests, golf…I am going to stop typing now. My manhood is feeling threatened.

Ocean

• I wish I lived by the ocean. I like winter as much as I like toothpicks being jammed under my fingernails, but yet I stay and take the yearly beatings again…and again...and again. Everyone says they love the four separate seasons, but that would be like saying “I love the weather” even though a hurricane is coming.

Parenting

• I never realized how difficult parenting would be. Have you ever tried to wipe a baby’s butt while they are trying their hardest to spin over, kick your hands off, and wipe their hands in the precise area they should definitely not touch, all while screaming at a pitch only meant for dogs to hear?

Quote

• The quote that has meant the most to me was from my dad when I was leaving for college. He wrote, “Be careful who you choose as friends. Not all of them deserve you.” I remember it like it was yesterday. He had never written or said anything to me like that before, so it had a big impact. I will most definitely repeat it to my children, a line that will last through the generations.

Rope, Jumping

• Bloomer, Wisconsin, my hometown, is known (at least by Bloomer residents) as the Jump Rope Capital of the World. There is a contest every January crowning the grand champion of the year. My personal best was 51 jumps in ten seconds, and that only got me into the semi-finals. I was like the Minnesota Vikings of jumping rope. Good enough to get close to the big game, but never good enough to get there.

Sister

• I love my sister. Her wisdom has taught me a great deal about life, but she hurt me in a great deal of ways while we were growing up. Let’s see, the times I was the donkey and she was Mary. The times she repeatedly hit me on the shoulder and said, “Don’t hit girls! Your future wife will thank me for this!” The times she made me think she was a robot that had kidnapped the real Becky. The time she spied on me when I was sleeping and caught me picking my nose (and no, I didn’t eat the booger. She said I did). The time she took all the underwear out of my suitcase for my week at camp because she was mad at me for not letting her use my Gameboy. And last, but not least, the time I was in sixth grade and she asked me if I wanted to “go out” with her fellow eighth grade friend, Kelly. When I said yes, she ran back to Kelly and they laughed at me. Did I mention that I used to live in a house that was a barn, and when I, the donkey, was carrying Mary, it took, not once, but two times around the barn house to make it to Bethlehem?

Tait

•  My dad’s tiling machine. One time when Nick and I were playing on it, I completely missed the step to the platform and belly-flopped six feet to the concrete shop floor. When I told my dad about it later, he laughed. That happened often, kind of like the time I rode a bike into a tree…drove the four-wheeler into a telephone pole…rode a sled into a barb wire fence…and still my dad laughed and laughed.

Uncle

• I am an uncle to three boys and four girls. It took me until the third child, Isaac, before I changed one of their diapers. Sure enough, he peed on me. That was the last diaper I changed until my daughter was born.

Vegetables

• I am not a big fan of veggies. But yet I force my daughter to eat them. Does that make me a hypocrite? More importantly, when she is old enough to realize that I don’t always eat the veggies I am telling her to eat, what do I do? I would rather eat elephant ear wax than beets.

Weekend, Labor Day

• My wife and I were married on Labor Day weekend 2006. We were engaged five weeks earlier. Yes, my wife planned a full scale wedding in five weeks. I would like to say I helped, but then I would be lying.

X-ray

• I have had a number of x-rays on my ankles and knees from all the basketball I have played in my life. All of them came back negative. I still don’t understand the jacket they give you to wear, though. One guy told me to make sure it covered my male area so I could have kids one day. Are you serious? I tried to tuck everything back, if you know what I mean. Talk about uncomfortable. X-rays should be illegal.

Yosemite National Park

• We went to Yosemite as part of our California trip. On that same California trip when I was driving and my dad was barfing in the back of the van, I had to blast the heater to keep the engine cool. It was well over 100 degrees in the middle of the desert, and we had to have the radio off because of my dad’s migraine. I was extremely sleepy, and my brother wouldn’t simply go to the back of the van to get me carrots to eat to help me stay awake. He was too scared of the barf. Good memories.

Z aven

• I wanted to name my son Xavier, but Joy wanted it to be spelled Zavier. I finally agreed, but after doing name research we saw the name was becoming too popular. We played with the name until we came up with Zaven. I love it, and I love my son…even when he throws valuables into the garbage and toilet. We are still missing the brand new wisk, cell phone cover, and his crib buddy Dog Dog.

The Challenge

Last week was the third annual Hudson Middle School burger-eating challenge at Leo's Grill and Malt Shop in Stillwater, MN. It reminded me of where it all started...

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The Challenge

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This story is dedicated to the inaugural HMS Jumbo Burger Challenge team:

·         “Coach” Dan Koch

·         “Assistant Coach/Videographer” Rick Schultz

·         Dustin “Don’t Talk to Me While I’m Eating” Miller

·         Jim “Burger Boy” Revoir

·         Jesse “Nervous About My Game Plan” Lam

·         Clint “Chipmunk Cheeks” St. John

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“You skinny punks can’t beat us,” Mr. Miller and Mr. Revoir smugly told Mr. Lam and me. The two of them looked like the Bushwhackers WWF tag-team I used to watch as a kid. Biceps and bellies bulged out of their medium-sized Hudson Middle School cutoff shirts.

The long basketball coaching season had come to a close, and the four of us decided to take on the gut-busting burger-eating challenge at Leo’s Grill and Malt Shop to celebrate a job well done. Mr. Shultz was invited along for moral support, but Lam just had to open his big mouth during lunch that day. The Bossman, Principal Koch, had swung by the seventh grade teachers’ lunchroom and wanted to go along too. He ordered Shultz to take a camera to the event. A burger-eating challenge, a camera, and my boss: recipe for disaster…and non-tenure.

Everyone agreed to meet at Leo’s. Miller, Lam and I jumped into Lam’s car. Miller seemed cool and confident all day; he even said he ate a Culver’s ButterBurger Deluxe for breakfast. But he started to come unglued in the backseat. “You guys set me up! You two jerks have probably been training for months. After you beat me, you will brag around school forever! You set me up!”

Lam and I looked at one another and worried about Miller’s sanity and our safety. We were more than a bit worried about the Bane lookalike transforming in the back. Lam stepped on the gas to Leo’s, so Bane could unleash his fury on the burger rather than us.

Everybody was waiting when we finally made it to the restaurant, and when we sat down, Shultz started taking our mug shots. Our appointed head coach, Mr. Koch, went over individual game plans while we ordered our massive chunks of cow flesh. Miller and Revoir started pacing and growling like steroid-induced tigers in a cage. We couldn’t figure out if it was their stomachs or voices doing the growling, but we didn’t want to find out.

Finally, our server came out with the burgers. A floating mist of steam engulfed our booth, and the aroma of fresh beef massaged our nose hairs. While we were waiting for them to cool, Coach Koch lost his patience. “Go!” he barked.

Everything started moving in slow motion. Miller and Revoir were devouring the meat before I even had a good handle on my sandwich. I felt like I was in the Velociraptor cage from Jurassic Park. Coach Koch yelled at Lam for eating the chips first. What kind of strategy was that? Did he know something I didn’t? I had to stop thinking and start eating.  I could hear the sizzle of meat as it entered my mouth and burned off my taste buds. I needed a fire extinguisher: Heinz ketchup.

Soon enough I was in the zone. Burger, bread, chips, ketchup, mustard, bacon, onions, and water were flowing down my esophagus. My chest started to tighten, but I ignored the pain. Lam and I not only wanted to finish the burger in less than twenty minutes, we wanted to take down the two ripped sumos.

I thought things were going well until Coach Koch barked in my ear. “Bad strategy! Stuffing the food in your cheeks like a chipmunk slows you down! Even Lam is going to beat you, and he looks nervous about his game plan! That’s what he gets for not listening to his coach!”

I looked across the table, and Lam’s face had turned a shade of gray; his eyes started to gloss over with meat tears. He looked queasy, and I became worried about being on the receiving end of upchucked Lam spew. Just as I was focusing back on the task at hand, Schultz started taking pictures again, but this time, he held the camera for a long time. It turned out he wasn’t just taking snapshots to share with the faculty, he was videotaping. The lower half of my face was full of ketchup, mustard, and burger grease. I could feel the pores opening all over me as the digested cow fought to escape my body, and to top it all off, there was a video camera taping everything for my colleagues’ ensuing entertainment.

Even with my flawed strategy, I was working hard enough to be in contention for the inaugural HMS Leo’s Challenge crown…or so I thought. Miller’s and Revoir’s faces were clean and very relaxed. Miller was patting the edge of his mouth with his napkin like he was trying to impress a date. Lam tried to ask him about the napkin use, but Miller glared at him and warned, “Don’t talk to me while I’m eating.”

Lam turned toward Revoir to reach for the water pitcher, but Revoir’s wild-man instincts took over. He thought Lam was going for his dinner. “Don’t touch my burger, boy!” he screamed. Miller and Revoir were both almost finished. We were only six minutes into the challenge, and they were inhaling beef like I inhale air. It was obvious that Grayface and I were already out of contention.

At the eleven minute mark, Miller and Revoir finished at the same time; they rammed their guts into one another and grunted like wild boars. Lam and I kept chewing and chewing, our goal now to finish within the twenty minute time frame to win the Leo’s t-shirt.  With way too much burger left, we were in the midst of the mental battle. Minute by minute passed, but I knew I would be able to finish. I finally put the last bite in my mouth at the 16:30 mark, and Coach Koch gave me a nod with a hint of disappointment. “Not bad, but not good, either,” he said. Koch peered over at Lam wondering if he would have to begin looking for a new art teacher. Finally, Lam fought through the last of the chips, his livelihood and manhood safe, finishing with a time of 17:40.

The newly-minted Burgerwhackers started bragging about how easily they crushed the burgers and our times. They tried to prove they were tougher than us by ordering chocolate shakes, but Lam and I answered by doing the same. It was hard to eat the ice cream though, and not because of the amount of food piling up in my belly: when Miller and Revoir would lift their glass mugs, my face was mere inches from crusty yellow pit hair and burger sweat pouring out of their armpit pores.

After finishing dessert, we were given our t-shirt trophies and had a team photo taken. “I am proud of you boys,” Coach Koch said. “This proves that I know how to hire the right kind of people."

Lam and I breathed a sigh of relief. Even though our times didn't match the Miller-Revoir tag-team, our jobs were safe. I learned a valuable lesson that day: don't mess with jumbo burgers, and don't mess with the Bushwhackers.

Number Two Can Be #1

With the Vikings having some success this season, it reminded me that anyone can have a great sports moment...even Kenny.

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Number Two Can Be #1

Kenny Anderson was my sixth grade baseball team’s most explosive player, even more than Josh Dachel, the MVP of the Bloomer Little League. But Kenny’s explosiveness was not baseball related: it was bowel related.

You see, Kenny had a problem. He was known, on occasion, to drop a “deuce” in his pants. It happened approximately three and a half times from our kindergarten year through fifth grade (if you’re wondering how the half took place, use your imagination). The fifth grade incident was especially nasty. Let’s just say, underwear is not supposed to weigh two pounds.

It was the top of the last inning of our battle with second place Nelson Filter, and we headed to our positions. I took my spot at second and looked at the scoreboard. We were tied 4-4. As I was cleaning the base, Kenny ran to his spot in right field. If there was a place to hide Kenny, it was right field. Josh played center, and his Usain Bolt-like speed allowed him to roam the entire outfield, covering for Kenny’s mistakes. If there was ever a face of non-athleticism, it was Kenny. He missed every catch and had two hits on the year, and that was in batting practice.

After two ground outs, Jimmy Zweifelhofer, Nelson Filter’s feared power hitter, stepped to the plate. He constantly crushed balls over the left field fence, so Josh moved that direction. On the first pitch, Jimmy launched a rocket…to right field. Kenny’s eyes bulged like oversized grapefruits as the little white ball of death torpedoed directly at him. His feet were stuck in the ground, and he held his Wilson glove directly in front of his face. I sprinted toward him expecting the drop, but suddenly, Pop! The ball landed right in Kenny’s mitt.

“Way to go Kenny!” I shrieked, as Kenny seemed to force a smile and waddle to the dugout.

We were all confident in the outcome of the game. Kenny came in slower than usual and slumped into the corner seat. A nose-burning stench instantly devoured the dugout, and we knew Kenny had struck once again.

“No Kenny!” we bellowed. “What did you do?!”

A fight-to-the-death battle of King of the Hill commenced as our team clawed over one another, battling for the farthest spot in the opposite corner where even the life-saving oxygen was hanging on for dear life. We were jammed together fighting and shrieking like pigs trying to escape the butcher. The evil stench stalked us; the toxic gas filled our clubhouse and lungs. Like the star he was, Josh ignored the crowd and toxins and sat by Kenny, showing his teammate he was there for him, regardless of the smell.

It turned out that Kenny was first up to bat, but he stayed in his spot. We didn’t know what he would do, but he finally stood up, grabbed his Easton Bat, and slouched his way to the batter’s box. His head drooped in shame. Our team instinctively scanned Kenny’s pants, and sure enough, the evidence was soaking through, clearly visible for everyone to see.

Kenny stepped up to the plate and the crowd and both teams waited for the impending strikeout. The pitcher sailed a fastball right down the pipe… CRACK! Kenny crushed the ball to dead center. He took off toward first, and Coach Thompson sent him to second. Kenny rounded for possibly the first double (not to be confused with the other #2) of his life. The center fielder rifled the ball to the second baseman, but Kenny slid feet first under the second baseman’s tag just in time.

“Safe!” the umpire roared.

Kenny jumped up, a huge smile covering his face, his hands raised in jubilation. Our team erupted in applause from the sacred corner of the dugout. “Way to go Kenny!” We couldn’t believe that he had finally gotten a hit, even though he was weighted down in multiple ways.

Josh came up to bat as Kenny started to lead off. The pitcher again threw a fastball down the center of the plate, but this time he wasn’t so lucky. Josh smashed the pitch over the fence, sending Kenny home for the winning run. Grinning from ear to ear as he rounded the bases, Kenny trotted home. After stomping on home plate and turning for the dugout, he saw we were waiting to congratulate him. We held our collective breath and slapped his back, careful not to go too low. I hate to admit it, but most of us, including me, checked how gravity was rearing its ugly head. Surprisingly, everything was still lodged in the same place.

As Kenny shuffled toward his bike and squished onto the seat, Josh caught up to congratulate him. Kenny beamed with pride. He didn’t care at all about the sewage in his pants. I learned that day that a moment of success in sports is possible for anyone, even someone as intestinally explosive as Kenny.

Always, always they will disappoint you

“Always, always they will disappoint you.”

My uncle John was not talking about mortgage payments, used cars, or tax bills. He wasn’t even talking about the government. He was talking about the Minnesota Vikings…years before the heart shredding 2010 NFC Championship Game choke job of all choke jobs to the eventual Super Bowl champion New Orleans Saints.

This is the lesson he tried to impart, as fans sobbed, the Pack kept winning, and the Vikings won just enough to miss out on a franchise saving quarterback.

Always, always the fumbles and interceptions start and never cease. Always, always the best players get hurt or traded for potato chips. Always, always when the big games are finally reached, new ways of gift wrapping the Vince Lombardi trophy to yet another team smashes the hopes and dreams of all Vikings fans, ages 1-101, that have yet to see a Super Bowl champion. And always, always, the losses…the pain…just…won’t…stop…

Always, always, they will disappoint you. And always, after the season, Minnesota Vikings fans move forward. They wipe away the face paint and tears. They patch up the fist-sized holes in the drywall. They apologize to their pastors for missing Sunday sermons. And they keep on going. It is the life of the Vikings fan. They polish up their Vikings horns. They scour youtube to prepare for the Draft. They beg the owner to open his wallet yet again.

Always, always they will disappoint you. When it’s a team’s misfortune to absolutely suck, fans must embrace, hold on, and wait for “next year.”

But what if it is always, always all about “next year?”

Give the poor Vikings fan some grace for thinking this way, only two short years removed from the twelve-man-on-the-field penalty and Brett Favre’s knife-in-the-stomach interception. The rest of the NFL world, watching the disasters unfold year after year from their recliners and LCD big screens, knows the real sports curse lies not with the Chicago Cubs, but the Minnesota Viqueens.

Bad enough, the NFC North is currently stock full of top-flight quarterbacks with Pro Bowl receivers. Bad enough the best players on the Vikings are on retirement’s doorstep or stitched together with needle and thread. All that is truly bad enough, but that is just the here and now.

After 1970, when the heavily favored Vikings got blown out 23-7 by the Kansas City Chiefs in Super Bowl IV, after 1974, when they were again blown out in the Super Bowl 24-7 by the Miami Dolphins, after 1975, when they were defeated 16-6 in the Super Bowl to the Pittsburgh Steelers, after the “Hail Mary” blown call by the referees during the following 1975-76 season’s playoffs to the Dallas Cowboys, who easily reached the Super Bowl that season, after 1977, when they lost in the Super Bowl yet again, 32-14, after the dropped pass in the 1987 NFC championship game vs. the Washington Redskins, losing 17-10, with the Redskins destroying the Broncos in the Super Bowl two weeks later, after the Hershel Walker fleecing which built the Cowboys into a Super Bowl dynasty (see Emmitt Smith for details), after 1998, with Gary Andersen missing his only field goal of the season that would have clinched a berth in the Super Bowl, causing the Vikings to be the first 15-1 team not to reach the big game, and finally, the aforementioned 2010 debacle of all debacles vs. the New Orleans Saints.

Always, always, they will disappoint you. The Vikings may feel like they are just one of the disappointing teams in the state of Minnesota. The Twins have been in a losing spell for multiple seasons, but at least fans can remember the two World Series titles from 1987 and 1991. The Gophers football team has been the laughingstock of the Big Ten for years, but at least they won multiple national championships, albeit during the Dark Ages. The Timberwolves have been a woeful franchise as well, but it’s hard for fans to have their hearts broken by a team that counts a successful season as one when they aren’t in the lottery. For Vikings fans, the torture is never ending: the past, present, and future.

Vikings fans will have to do what they always do, keep turning on the television in hopes that the team will somehow not be themselves and win before death comes knocking. Disappointment and death, two words that symbolize everything the Vikings are for their fans.

Man of Valor

Valor.

The Mancave definition is “Great strength that enables a man to encounter danger with courage, as in battle.”

Are you a man of valor? Am I?

I recently watched the movie, Act of Valor, starring real-life Navy Seals depicting a fictional storyline based on actual events. Part of the story is told through the voice of Chief Dan as he reads a letter he wrote to the unborn son of his best friend and comrade, who died in battle.

Below is part of the letter:

Before my father died, he said the worst thing about growing old was that other men stop seeing you as dangerous...I've always remembered that how being dangerous was sacred, a badge of honor. You live your life by a code. An ethos, every man does…Your father’s grandfather gave up his life flying a B24 in WWII; he kept the liberator aloft just long enough for everyone to jump and then he went down with the plane. That's the blood coursing in your veins…

Before your father died he asked me to give you this poem by Chief Tecumseh. I told him I'd fold it into a paper airplane and in a way...I guess that's what I'm doing, sailing it from him to you…

(final stanza) “When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.”

So what is a man of valor? Is it only attainable for fierce, dangerous warriors that fight in gun battles in the name of freedom and honor? If so, I am in trouble. I engage in battles at my work as well, but rather than have to maneuver around the chaos of rapid fire machine guns, I dodge boogers and hormones…literally. In the eighth grade, some kids seem like they graduated kindergarten the day before entering my classroom, while others try to dress and act like they are interviewing for the next opening on Jersey Shore.

There are times when I feel like I am swimming upstream in a river that is going nowhere, making no impact in a battleground that doesn’t exist. Those are the days I don’t feel like a dangerous man of valor at work.

The same kind of feeling happens at times at home. When my wife complains that my toenails and waistline are expanding to undesirable levels, my daughter has her 17^th temper tantrum before we sit down to breakfast, and my son’s butt is stained purple from yesterday’s blueberries, I don’t feel very dangerous. But if there is one group of people that needs me to be a man of valor, it is my family. My wife needs a husband that is dangerously in love with her. My daughter and son need to see a daddy that is dangerously in love with their mommy. They need a daddy that will skip nights out watching basketball with the guys to be home reading Bible stories and Curious George.

The blood coursing in my veins needs to show my son how to be a strong man, husband, father. It needs to show my daughter what she deserves from her future husband. It needs to show my wife she is still the princess she was on our wedding day, leading her to uncover all life’s beauty as she follows me down our path.

At the end of life, a man of valor will not beg for more time and extra chances to do things better. He should sing like a hero going home, knowing that he prevailed in the battle he was meant to fight.

Am I a man of valor?

Lives depend on it.

Real life story from the Mancave: Family Fireworks of 2011

This past July 4th was a lot of fun for my family, and it went by without a hitch...unlike last year...

The Loose Cannon

            “G…game,” I sputtered in exhausted triumph. I had somehow beaten my younger brother, Nick, in a game of one on one basketball. I was now only down six games to one, and we decided to finish up my big comeback the next day, as it was getting late, and I was getting old. It was time to set up the annual St. John July 4^th firework display.

Stars were glistening over the cornfields that surrounded Mom and Dad’s house at the end of their seemingly interminable driveway. Occasional rounds of fireworks would flash in the distance. The rest of the St. John clan, 13 in all, surrounded the blazing campfire, stomachs full of hot dogs and smores. Buddy, Nick’s black lab, rolled around and groaned, and a peculiar odor hung over us like a cloud, stinging our nose hairs. My nephews and nieces obviously shared some of their food with her, yet another annual July 4^th tradition.

            “Get the fireworks a long way away! They’re dangerous!” Becky, my sister, yelled.

My brother and I looked at one another and rolled our eyes. “It’s under control!” We shouted back in sarcastic unison. It was a yearly tradition in the St. John household to light fireworks on July 4^th and put up with my sister’s lecture about all their supposed danger.

Once we were at a distance that pleased Fire Marshall Becky, Nick and I decided to start with the child-friendly fountain shower. Definitely boring, but a fun start for the kids. It was a freebie, thrown in by the salesman as a token of appreciation for ripping off my brother’s June salary. Since it was only supposed to emit a small radius, we inched closer to the group, avoiding Becky’s watchful eyes.  With too much distance the kids would barely be able to see the little appetizer before the main course of fireworks came to the table.

We brought the 8” x 5” box about 25 yards from the campfire. Lighting the wick, Nick and I backed about seven feet away, waiting for the tiny burst to burn out before we could get to the main event. BOOM! A sound resembling a gunshot erupted at our feet, and a blast flew upward and exploded high in the sky. We hadn’t read the label, assuming the small package meant an equally small detonation. Realizing the danger, we ran further from the device.

But the peril was only beginning. The firework malfunctioned. It tipped over, and the next shot exploded right at our family, still snuggling next to the campfire.  Explosions of shrapnel rained down on the tin roof of the garage. We were suddenly in the middle of a combat zone. Neither of us could see if anybody was hit. Screams of both young and old echoed in our minds, but my mom’s piercing rose above them all, shrieking like a pig being sent to slaughter. We didn’t know if our family was just terrified or being mutilated.

Both of us instinctively ran to help. But suddenly, the loose cannon turned and aimed in our direction. The third shot zoomed right at us. Everything started moving in slow motion. We were like Neo dodging bullets in The Matrix, contorting ourselves out of its’ vicious path by a mere three feet. The detonation blew up behind us in the horse pasture. We dropped to the ground to avoid the next assault, but the fourth and final shot discharged in the nearby cornfield.

Finally able to go to the aid of our family, we expected the worst. A massive smoke cloud surrounded them; we had to wait a few seconds for it to clear before the collateral damage could be estimated. My youngest nephew, Isaac, was in his father’s arms, trembling and muttering something about a firework blasting under his chair. There was bloodshed: Lucas, my oldest nephew, had been attacked by the cat as it tried to escape the horror. Dad was still frozen to the lawn chair, gripping the handles like a General holding his last weapon while going down with his men in battle. He was staring straight ahead in some sort of trance. I didn’t know if I should be scared for his safety or mine once he snapped out of it. Everybody else was strewn about the yard. Some were yelling while others were in a daze. With the onslaught all around them, none were hit directly. They were in shock from the minefield of loud explosions that had engulfed them moments before, but thankfully, none were physically injured.

Guilt poured over Nick and me. We knew we made a huge mistake taking the little box of dynamite so close to our family. So did my sister. “What happened? Why were the fireworks so close! We could have been hurt! The children!” Becky shouted.

“Sorry we didn’t listen,” we said sheepishly, starting back over to the rest of the fireworks...a long way away.

Not only would we remember this day for the rest of our lives, but our sister would, as well. Forty years from now, this story will be told at the annual St. John July 4^th firework display. The Fire Marshall will make sure of it.