Never Live Down I

Some things we never live down. No matter how hard you try when you run into people, they’ll associate with a time and a place. This was one of those times.

Fourth of July 1989. I was 8 years old and staying for summer with my grandparents in Northern Alabama. This was a very scary time for me. First of all, I didn’t know my grandparents all that well. Second, I was with my sister who was 14 at the time and was well into her teenage “I’m cooler than you are” era and that made getting along terribly difficult.

At the time my grandparents were still working. They would get up at the crack of dawn and would return to the house around mid-afternoon. Unfortunately for me, that meant the TV would be commandeered by my sister and only shows that were popular in the 60s would be viewed.

The only other options for entertainment was to stay in the room I shared with my sister and read original Archie comics from cover to cover or go outside and roam the streets restlessly.

But 4th of July was different. My grandparents had the day off and had arranged a barbecue with the neighbors barbecue and a fireworks show afterward. After day after day of boredom, I was delighted about what the day had in store. The neighbors had a daughter who was a year younger than me, but unfortunately was only available to play on the weekends because she went to daycare during the “work week.”

As the night began to take over the day, the neighbors’ backyard took on celebratory sights and sounds. My friend and I put our Barbies away and lingered by the smoky grill - our mouths watering and our stomachs growling as hot dogs and hamburgers sizzled teasingly. Fireflies congregated in the farther edges of the lawn vying for unabashed attention. My grandparents, neighbors and other adults played cards at the kitchen table and ribbed one another while soul singers from the 70s crooned emotionally from a stereo that looked like it was made the year those singers were at the top of the charts.

My sister emerged from her spot in front of the television and proceeded to poke her head out once in awhile to check the status of the food or yell at me for being such a baby when I would stick my tongue out at her. As soon as the food was ready, the kids were told to keep outside, so we huddled around the small lawn table and stuffed our mouths with hamburgers, potatoes chips, pickles and orange sodas.

The grown-ups finished at a slightly slower pace, but my friend and I were soon giddy with excitement when we heard the words – firecrackers, set-off and lighter, make their way into the adults’ conversation.

Our patience was finally paying off. All day my friend had hounded her father about setting the firecrackers off until right before dinner when her father gave her a stern warning of not “bringing it up again or there would be no fireworks.”

The grown-ups rose from their spots at the table and began heading toward the front yard and we immediately followed on their heels.

“There ain’t many trees out here to catch fire, but ya’ll let me know if you see any cops. It’s illegal to set these off in the city limits,” my friend’s father called to us as he took a puff off his cigarette.

He reached into the brown paper bag he was holding in his other hand and pulled out a string of Black Cat fireworks. He handed the brown paper bag to his wife and marched to the center of the road.

“Now ya’ll stay back now. Ya hear? “ he yelled toward his daughter, my sister and myself. We agreed with a frenzied squeal.

He grabbed the butt of his smoke and proceeded to press the cherry of it to the long igniter string attached to 10 to 15 Black Cats. As the string lit up with recognition of the flame, he tossed the fireworks to the ground and ambled toward the rest of the group and turned to see the result.

After a slight delay, the Cats rumbled and sputtered as they exploded together. In response, the small gathering laughed and screamed as we covered our ears from the noise.

“Well that didn’t do much. Let’s see if these bigger ones will give us some more light.” My friend’s dad said as he pulled out a blue rocket-shaped firework with tiny red and white balls on it and a long igniter attached at the bottom.

“Oh shoot. I’m backing up from that one. You better not light our house fire,” his wife chortled as she took several steps away from the road.

He shook his head and grabbed a coffee can that was lying at the edge of the driveway and placed it in the middle of the road. He then reached into his pocket and fished out a lighter and proceeded to light the igniter on the ominous-looking firework. Once it was lit, he placed the firework into the coffee can and headed toward us yet again, but this time he jogged with his head lowered.

My friend and I held each others arms as we waited for detonation. Just when we thought it was a dud, the firework let out a high pitch whistle and zoomed straight toward the quickly darkening sky. Suddenly the lawn was lit up by red then green then blue streaming balls. The gathering screamed and clapped at the spectacle.

As the lights from the firework began to fade, my friend started pleading to her father for another show. “Ok, let’s see what we got here,” her father answered as he began digging through the brown paper bag again.

Suddenly a siren squealed, tires screeched and lights flashed from what appeared to be a police car less than a block away. .

“Oh shit! It’s the cops!” my friend’s mother yelled.

Bodies began moving everywhere. Some moved to inside the house, other disappeared into the shadows. My feet however were glued to the ground.

“Come on now, girl! We can’t be caught setting off fireworks!” my friend’s mother loudly whispered as she pulled my arm toward the backyard fence.

We jumped over the fence, and found bodies huddled and crouched behind the wall of the modest home with every face hidden by the shadows.

“Shit I hope we don’t get caught,” someone whispered.

“Shh…” someone hissed. “Shut up!” Someone else yelped.

I was petrified. The only thing I could think was, I was 8. And I was going to jail. I was never going to see my mom or dad again. I would never see my friends back home. I would never begin 4th grade.

My short-lived life flashed before my eyes and I began to cry. Maybe crying isn’t the best way to describe it. Tears weren’t just coming from my eyes, they were flooding down my cheeks and snot was gushing from my nose and for the life of me I could not breathe. I was having a fit in front of almost complete strangers.

“What’s wrong with you girl?” the neighbor lady asked grabbing both of my shoulders.

“We’re going to jail!” I wailed. “I won’t ever see my mommy or daddy again!”

“Girl, you ain’t gonna go to jail!” she said to me incredulously. “Yes I am!” I retorted, my hands cupped around my mouth, desperately trying to suck in air. Lucky for me it wasn’t the first time I had had a complete melt down.

“It’s all clear!” I heard my friend’s father call.

Bodies began materializing out of shadows and a wave of relief ran over me, but only for a brief moment.

“Guess what ya’ll?” the neighbor lady called. “That girl was crying! She thought she was going to jail at the age of 8 for setting off fireworks,” she continued with a laugh.

“What?!” My sister spat as she wheeled on her heels to face me. “You thought you were going to go to jail? You ARE so stupid.”

And for the rest of the night my friend, her mother, her father, my grandmother and my sister laughed at me. To this day whenever I go to visit my grandmother and see the neighbors’ they bring up the time I had an emotional break down over jail and fireworks at the tender age of 8.