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.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 