Posted on by Phil Strawn

Remembering the 4th of July 1957


The whirling of the push mower blades sings a song of torment as I strive to advance the heavy beast forward. I missed cutting the grass by two days: now, it’s akin to whacking my way through a South American jungle. I’m eight years old, and it’s the 4th of July 1957.

Later this afternoon, folks and kin will come over for a backyard cookout and fireworks. A watermelon is chilling in the ice-filled tub, while a supply of Cold Pearl beer and soft drinks occupy another. Both tubs rest in the refreshing shade of our backyard Mimosa tree. My old man’s cherished Leonard Brothers all-steel Master Chef charcoal grill sits on the driveway, brimming with Mesquite briquettes freshly bought from “Little Bills Cookout Ranch” in Eastwood Texas.

Many of the kinfolk invited to the family gathering have long found themselves on my father’s “Naughty List,” but being a kind man, he extends the invitation year after year, including on Christmas Day. They always come, and before long, the reasons for their past banishments come to the fore. Cold beer, followed by a belt of Old Crow whiskey, seems to grant them the audacity to make a truly remarkable spectacle of themselves. They can be quite entertaining, but only for a short while. As a young one, their antics matter little to me. My mind is set on handling dangerous fireworks and causing grandiose explosions.

Folks start moseying in as the sun starts its descent. A few cousins near my age will make the shindig bearable. My tomboy cousin Ginger brings her bow and target arrows, while I tote a bag full of steel-pointed lawn darts. Ginger wastes no time in shooting my cousin Jok in his left buttock. My father yanks out the arrow, and a band-aid does the trick. Kids were made of sterner stuff back then. Only a speeding bullet might have given us pause. We then move on to firecrackers, cherry bombs, and sparklers.

Burgers are served along with “tater salad” and watermelon. Pearl beer gives my father’s uncle Orum the ability to talk like Will Rogers. His home-spun recounts of past family gatherings captivate the adults. Without the lubrication of beer, he is as humorless as a cardboard box.

Cousin Ginger finds her not so well-hidden bow and arrows in our garage and sends an arrow through a bedroom window glass. Her father, Jake administers a well-deserved butt whooping. It’s not often I see a girl get a spanking. Jok and I egg our uncle Jake on. Ginger does the one-arm escape dance, screaming for mercy, as her father delivers the blows.

I obliterate every ant hill in our alley using Black Cat firecrackers before launching a tin can into the stratosphere with a Cherry Bomb. Cousin Jok places a Cherry Bomb on the front tire of his older brother’s new MG convertible to gauge the velocity of the blast. The firework creates an outward dent in the fender, serving as a foreboding omen for Jok’s impending doom; he is well aware of the retribution that awaits him upon his return home.

Darkness comes, and we twirl sparklers in figure-eight shapes. Sticks of metal ablaze at 3,000 degrees. Children clutching a welding torch; what could possibly go wrong? Cousin Jok miscalculating the burn duration of a sparkler, singes his hand, leading him to release the little torch, igniting a yard blanket upon which his mother was seated, prompting her to drop her beer and hot dog. My father douses the blaze with a garden hose. Jok is surely on track to set a new standard for butt whooping’s when he gets home.

Ten o’clock arrives, and I’m lying in bed after my bath. The soft whir of my bedroom fan lulls me into La-La Land. The adults are still in the backyard. I hear their laughter and catch a few words of some dirty jokes.

Drowsiness comes; sleep is but a minute away; then I hear my mother singing God Bless America, and the others join in. It feels good to be a kid on the 4th of July.

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20 Replies to “Remembering the 4th of July 1957”

  1. Great memories! We used to pop manhole covers with M-80s slipped through the water drains in the curb. And, of course, we always put a cherry bomb in someone’s mailbox. Somehow, we all ended up becoming fine upstanding citizens!

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    1. One day at school (7th grade) a kid had a cherry bomb , lit it, and tried to throw it out the window. He missed. It landed behind the big radiator and went off. When the teacher came running back into the room, we all sat with folded hands, looking straight ahead, and her urgent inquiries regarding the culprit were met with total silence.

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      1. Kids don’t rat out their bud’s. Cherry Bombs got me in a lot of trouble during the 50s. I can imagine that classroom scene..Ha..good stuff.

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  2. Thanks for the story Phil. I would have hated to be Cousin Jok when he got home!

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    1. I wasn’t present at the execution, but I do know from family gossip that his older brother Mike knew exactly what happened and roughed Jok up a bit, then his mother and father had a go at him. I had no idea a Cherry bomb could do such damage. I wasn’t allowed to buy them after that.

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      1. I’ve never seen a Cherry Bomb…I think they banned them before I had a right to buy fireworks. Those are the things people threw down toilets to blow up pipes.
        Cousin Jok didn’t have a good time

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      2. Yes they were. They should have been banned in the 50s. My parents let me play with them. I blew up an big-assed watermelon with one and destroyed my dads Colman Ice chest also. That one resulted in a butt whooping. Of course the cute little sparklers we all waved around burned at 3000 degrees, enough to weld with. Imagine an 8 year old with a welding torch.

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      3. I think back and my sister and I would fire those damn roman candles at each other…big fireballs coming in at my head…it’s a wonder we weren’t blinded or badly burned.

        When you said butt whooping… it made me think of our son’s teachers in jr high…they asked me what was our secret becasue he was so well behaved…we said “spankings”…. Phil they looked at me like I was the devil… I told them…I would never beat my son but a spanking….oh yea.

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  5. Push lawn mowers, spitting watermelon seeds, and singing “God Bless America”-that’s what I also remember about Independence Day. Thanks for the chuckles and rekindling those memories. Happy Fourth to you and Momo, Phil. 🙂

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    1. You have a good one too, Nancy. Yeah, I can dig pretty deep at times and remember those celebrations. It was a different world back then, not saying it was stellar and perfect, but darn sure more pro-America. I forgot about those darn seeds; I swallowed more than I spit out. Thanks for your memories too.

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      2. Thank you, Nancy, for that story. Your mother was a fighter. She would likely have a fit over what is happening today, but since she can’t, it’s up to you to continue. She was a lovely woman. A moving story and I enjoyed every word of it.

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      3. Thank you, Phil. My mother was a survivor, but the war left its scars. I felt compelled to tell her story, so I appreciate that you took the time to read it and comment. I think we all need to carry the torch for our Constitutional Republic.

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  6. Grandpa had a reel mower and I was privileged to use it from time to time. What a beast! Yeah, we were pretty much free range kids back then. We carried pocket knives and played unsupervised for hours. Amazing we survived. I feel sorry for kids today.

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    1. Free Range is a perfect description. I also had a small Barlow pocket knife gifted to me from my grandfather when I was 6; also had a Daisy BB Gun as did every kid in our neighborhood. BB gun wars, amazing we didnt shoot our eyes out. My youngest grandson is 12 and has been in Cub Scouts and now Boy Scouts. He carries a big-ass knife, knows hot to use a hatchet and is a dead eye shot with a shot gun and a 22. He’s not free range, but almost. Great comment and recount.

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