"Safe and Sane" Fireworks!
That's a blast from the past. Literally.
Fireworks stands started going up over the past few days in Bako. I hadn't seen those in years! Decades! I had assumed all civilized parts of California had banned fireworks. And I was right - that's why you can still get them in Bakersfield.
That brings back memories. It was always such a rite of passage as a kid, the official opening of summer. The stands always went up a week or two after school let out, and we used to ride our bikes up and drool over the rainbow array of sparklers, ground flowers, fountains, cones and pinwheels.
Piccolo Petes!
Roman candles!
You had to be 16 to buy them. If you had older siblings, in theory they could buy them for you. But that rarely happened. No, you were at the mercy of your parents, and the parents always went for one of the boxed sets displayed against the back wall. At one end was the "Family Pack", which was small, wimpy and lame. And cheap, so that was always the parent's first choice. With a minimal amount of whining you could usually upgrade to something more substantial, and we usually settled on the "Let Freedom Ring" assortment. At the other extreme was the motherlode, the Holy Grail, a monstrous box the size of a coffee table... "THE COLOSSUS"!
No one ever got The Colossus.
The Greek family across the street had a son around my age. Every year his father would make a quick trip to Tijuana in the weeks before the Fourth of July and return with an illegal arms cache of ladyfingers, firecrackers and M-80's, which he dispersed generously to the neighborhood boys. It pissed off the other parents and traumatized the girls because by far our favorite target for explosive destruction was... Barbie.
Skipper too.
Everyone raided their sister's Barbie collections and in the days leading up to the Fourth the street looked like a scene out of "Platoon"; singed Barbie limbs littering the gutters. And the occasional head. The heads usually flew the farthest and were gone for good.
The highlight of every Fourth was a fireworks extravaganza put on by a scary man who lived down the street. He was a colleague of my father's and taught chemistry. He was a "confirmed bachelor" and lived with his mother. Years later when I saw "Psycho" for the first time, I thought of him. He'd converted his garage into an industrial workshop, like a serial killer. He had an unhealthy obsession with fireworks and spent the entire year building elaborate Rube Goldberg contraptions to display them.
On the morning of the Fourth he'd wheel out his creations and spend the entire day maniacally rigging them with explosives. As night fell, the neighbors all gathered, the kids with uncontained excitement, the parents with a good deal of trepidation. As showtime approached, he'd emerge from his house with his mother. This would be the only time you saw her all year.
Finally, with a flourish, he'd light the first pinwheel. It would set off a chain reaction, like a game of Mousetrap, each firework triggering the next for 20 or 30 minutes. It was ingenious. It was a beyond spectacular.
Everyone went home happy and reeking of sulfur.
I understand the safety concerns that have led to so many places banning fireworks, but I have to admit the Fourth just isn't quite the same without them. I'm actually happy there are still places like Bakersfield, where True Patriots still cherish their God given right to put out an eye, blow off a finger or torch a neighbor's house in the name of American Freedom.
Sadly, we won't be here for the pyromania. We plan to be away that weekend looking for a new place to live.
Someplace a little safer. And saner.
