In honor of yesterday's holiday, Independence Day, I'd like to share an anecdote. There are a variety of festivities associated with the fourth of July, such as parades, barbecues with watermelon, and of course, fireworks shows. Children and adults alike flock to these activities and create a battery of memories that will last a lifetime. This is my memory.
Though I do not remember my exact age at the time this story took place, I do remember that I was under the age of 10. As a kid, I was afraid of loud noises in general, like a balloon popping, for instance. It was not only when I was caught off guard by a noise, but at the occurrence of any such noise I became frightened. If I knew the noise was coming, I had time to prepare, or shall I say freak out, in advance. Do not ask me what kind of trauma I endured to instill this ridiculous phobia, because I don't think I had one. Nope, just some good old fashioned unfounded fear. My family had a tradition of going to the annual fireworks show in Norman, and we always sat in Reeves Park on the same worn comforter. This comforter never saw the light of day except on the fourth of July. "Who keeps a blanket solely for use one day per year?" you may be wondering. Apparently we did.
I always enjoyed the sight of fireworks, but I found the noise to be abhorrent. I always watched from inside the house when my brother and dad would set off fireworks at our house. Black Cats were pretty much the most evil invention ever, since they were all bang and no flash. Anyway, I typically pouted through the entire fireworks display in Norman with my fingers plugging my ears, and when it was over, scuffled back to the car with the rest of the family. Yeah, I was a pretty bratty kid.
One year I was in a particularly irritable mood. I tried to talk my mom into leaving me at home while they went to the park. Of course, leaving a child under the age of 30 was not permissible in my overly sheltered upbringing. (Okay, okay, 30 might be an exaggeration.) Either way, I knew at the ripe old age of 8 or so that I was fully capable of not burning the house down if I were to be left alone for an hour or two. My mother did not consent and I was dragged along to the crowded craziness that included 30 minutes to find parking, a 10 minute walk to find a place to sit, and practically an hour trying to get out of town after the show concluded. Since I was so adamant about my dislike of the family tradition, I was in rare form. I was officially beyond the bratty classification. I whined a lot and asked if I could at least stay in the car while my family went to watch the fireworks. No such luck.
The designated July fourth comforter was spread on the ground in the park, and we were settled, waiting for the show to start. My mom mentioned that the wind was coming from an unusual direction, and that in our regular spot at the park, we were in fact down wind from where the fireworks were going to be set off. My dad said that we should still be fine. The embers would extinguish themselves before they got anywhere near us. So the fireworks began, and I had my fingers in my ears. Sure enough, the embers were coming right at us. They rained down and the mob of people in the area were picking up blankets and hastily retreating. Nothing had landed within ten feet of us, and we stayed put. At this time, I looked up directly above us and saw a flaming piece of cardboard coming straight for me. I skittered backward on the blanket, but my reaction time was inadequate, and the fireball landed on my left arm.
Now, I say fireball. Let me be clear. This monstrous weapon of terror was probably between the size of a quarter and a half dollar coin. By flaming, I mean glowing orange, but with no actual fire. When it landed on my arm, I was relatively sure that I would die, right then and there. Maybe one of the bystanders would know CPR and could resuscitate me, and perhaps someone could amputate my arm before the flames melted the skin off of the rest of my body. I squealed and brushed the blazing inferno off of my arm. To my surprise, not my mom, dad or brother even flinched. I ran under the nearest tree and yelled, "You'd better get under this tree!!!!" with an urgency that only a girl trying to save her family from the threat of death could possible muster. I believe I got a couple of eye-rolls, and a minute or two later, my family moved their blanket under the tree where I was taking refuge.
Of course, all anyone heard from me on the way back to the car that night was "I told you so. I knew I should have stayed home. Next year I am not leaving the car." I believe I had a tiny red spot on my arm. It did not blister or scab over. I have no physical scar to bear witness to the atrocity I survived.
This year I watched a fireworks show and thoroughly enjoyed it. I am not sure at what age my horror dissolved and I began enjoying fireworks shows. It was a gradual transition. There is only one year I can think of that I did not attend any fireworks displays. All I know now is that fireworks are much less terrifying than they used to be. And you know what? If you want to pop a balloon in my presence, I will be just fine.
