I bet this is about the last kind of post you expected when you found me this morning. Last thing I thought I would write about today, but I need a break from reality. I need to be happy if even for just a few minutes. It is 9 days until Christmas. I have no tree. No presents. No hope for any happiness on the horizon, so it is off to Nickerson and the 4th of July.
It is back to the ramshackle house at 709 North Strong Street and it is July 4th, 1948 and it is hotter than hell. No air conditioner in our window. Electricity is only used for the lights because we do not want to "wear it out". The war has been over for almost 3 years. My brother, Jake, had brought me home a package of fire crackers. I do not know where he got them, but they were wrapped in cellophane and they were red. There must have been 10 or twelve in the package and I was fascinated with them. In truth, I was scared to death of them!
They were (as I recall) about an inch long. They were a very dark red. The fuse was a piece of white twisted paper. If I had something like that today, I would light the twisted fuse and they would all pop and it would be over in 10 seconds. But that is now and this was 72 years ago. Times have changed.
We went to the old, dead Cottonwood tree out by the barn. Jake showed me how to pick the dead wood and select just the right piece to use as "punk". Punk is dead cottonwood from the heart of the tree. It separates easily, is very light , and it is free. The man selling the fireworks had given him a free punk, but I needed my own. In order to keep the punk glowing red, it needed to be blown on at regular intervals. My brother was the smartest person in the world! He was 4 years older than me and I worshipped the ground he walked on.
I recall untwisting one from the bunch and putting it in an ant hole. With the wick pointed upward and the punk held downward and my eyes about 4 inches from the firecracker I touched the glowing punk to the wick and nothing happened. Well, that is not quite true! Something happened, but it was not a popping firecracker. It was my mother jerking me off the ground and explaining to me that this was a stupid maneuver. My brother rounded the corner of the house and quickly exited, stage right!
She then taught me the proper was to do it. Unwind one firecracker. Lay it on the ground. Blow on the punk to make it red and touch the end to the fuse. As soon as the fuse showed signs of being lit, back up very far away. And then she was off to find brother Jake.
I do not remember many more 4th of July's until my first husband talked me into holding a Roman Candle in my hand and hurling it back and forth to make the balls go further. When that exploded in my hand, my firecracker days were over! Today I enjoy watching the fireworks across the river and I do it from the safety of my bedroom.
I miss my brother. I miss my mother. I miss my sisters. If this were not true, would I be writing about a 4th of July that happened 72 years ago? No. I would be curled up in my bed still sound asleep.
There is an old saying that goes like this, "When God closes a door, he opens a window." This means that life changes and life goes on. Until the day God calls me home, I will have choices. He has closed a door in my life and I am looking for the window. I hope there is one, but right now, I am not sure. I sure hope there is!
So, until you hear otherwise, Happy Fourth of July!
