Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Discount sparklers

We built our house on a sloping hill with the back end of it propped up on stilts of old oil stained posts. A year later we even added a clever porch that wrapped around the massive oak tree that shot past our rooftop. A dirt basement opened beneath it, a room where we would grow white button mushrooms and a stall for tools. My rabbit had his hutch there, and I would teach the new seasons of kittens to climb the oak tree to the open porch above. That July we had enough foresight to build a larder of sparklers, exploding snakes and fireworks from our trip to town to celebrate the occasion with. On the fourth, the sun refused to pass over the horizon, and the long day off spent in waiting added to my anxiousness for the holiday. The night was almost cold, me outfitted with my little denim coat before evening had even settled. The sparklers were quickly consumed by my mother and toddler brother: her spelling out their names in glimmering silver and gold streaks. They moved back into the house as dusk began to settle on us. The snakes me and my father lit carefully and I watched wide eyed as molten columns shot up from the tiny tin disks and disappeared in the smoke. I came down quickly from the excitement and sat by myself on the porch and as the frogs sang from the pond behind us the last bit of sun faded from the horizon. We never had much of occasions like this. City dads would barbeque and sip bud light in lawn chairs while the city moms would wear American flag aprons, make drinks and preen. No, my dad would be in his workshop with the constant thrum I knew to be his lathe. Mom would would be in the herb garden plucking chamomile heads and mint leaves to brew in a big bottle in the morning sun. I would never move to that dark dirty city of garages and pugs on chains. Then it would happen, at the right moment our spendthrift occasion would begin. Dad would walk out of his shop with the telltale brown bag of modest festivities wearing a serious look with a grin sneaking from behind it. The big firecracker was shaped like a horse; a deep blue and shiny cardboard rocking horse littered with warning stickers and redundant signs cautioning us of danger. Dad called everyone outside, and as the few wispy clouds floated over in the pitch of night he lit that fuse. The thing was propped up on the rail of the porch, small as a half of an apple, and never would the fuse take for more than a second. He tried again, three times flicking a match up again and cautiously bringing it up to the back of the plastic horse. Once more he brought a red match head to the sandpaper flap and it roared bright yellow for a second as he plunged it towards the fuse. It took rapidly this time, and in a brief stutter and distended whistle it had fallen to the ground somewhere apparently lifeless. Our few piecemeal fireworks used up and the night impenetrable, we laughed about our whistling horse. My mothers arms lifted, ushering us toward the door to close the nights events. Her and my father might stay up another few hours and watch something on that little tinny black and white TV. The canned laughter I would hear if I woke up in the middle of the night thirsty, comedy shows and well fitting suits. I had nearly gotten to the door when my eye caught a flitting amber light between the cracks of the porch boards. I drew down to see better, my parents distracted, my elbows on my knees peering. I uttered something naive, I knew no better; “I see fireflies!” She walked up irritated, urged I go to bed. “Look” I pronounced, eager to have her join in my love for fireflies. She too took a closer look. She did not mistake the crackling yellow flame for the blue-green of beetle love like I did. My father began running. He flew furiously past us, frightening me, briefly stopping in the kitchen to clamor with the pots and pans, door left flapping as he disappeared. I stood confused on the porch, looking through the old wood doors open to the dark. My heart thrummed like a fat bumblebee caught between the screen and the window. My mother waited for him... “It's ok honey, it's ok” she repeated to herself, her arm limp on my shoulder and her staring past me towards the open door. Her voice was weak; she was never a champion of disaster. I heard noises and soft voices; my upstairs bedroom open to the stairs where they spoke in rushed whispers and adulation. I tried to sleep, I had been up too long but my breathing wouldn't slow down. I didn't understand the secret they were keeping, the excitement. My mother came up to help me to bed, again tucking me in, taking time now to reassure me everything was over. I asked if dad was alright. She hesitated. I asked to see him. His right hand was in a large pot, ice overflowing it, medical tape around his wrist holding loose bandages onto red red skin. His arm was blotted by little flecks of rosy flesh. I cried and my stomach dropped. I hugged his belly, him reclined with his arm above his heart, his eyes too were glassy. I was 7, my brother just a diapered tot. He never remembered how it was when we lived hard and had so little. He grew up with color TV and friends close enough to visit the house. He doesn't remember when we set the house on fire with an errant firecracker and dad ripped down a burning sheet of plastic with his bare vulnerable hand and beat it out with a fry pan. He doesn't remember dad crying until the divorce or until the custody battle. I saw it well before, the bandages and never a trip to the hospital. The couple months spent in summer afraid of fire, watching new skin grow and telling everybody that they better listen to me next time; I saved all of us from burning up with that damned whistling horse. *Character building exercise additions in Italics.

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