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.