Silver State Musings: A Forgettable Fourth

Holidays are often as fleeting as any other day, ending about as indeterminately as they had begun. On occasion, though, there is always that one day...

When I was about 10 years old, I spent the Fourth of July holiday at the beach with family.

As usual, Mom and Dad piled their four children into the cab-over camper and drove south — all night — to Morro Bay, Calif., where my grandparents lived.

I just knew that year’s Fourth of July was going to be a doozy the moment I climbed out of the back of the camper and began ascending the steep stairs leading up to my grandparents’ front entry, where grandma was waiting.

I got about halfway up when I stumbled and slammed my shin against the hard, wooden step.

Yeah. Ouch.

After a few tears — mostly for sympathy from grandma — I had recovered and we went about settling in for our summer visit.

Dad’s brothers and sisters were also there visiting for the holiday. No sooner had everyone exchanged greetings — kisses and hugs from aunts and high-fives from uncles — that they began planning the Fourth of July celebration.

Of course, there would be a veritable feast of hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, deviled eggs, ambrosia and fruit pies — what else would you expect from a house hosting more than a baker’s dozen?

Dad smuggled in the fireworks: Sparklers for the kids, some poppers, Whistling Petes, Roman Candles, bottle rockets, fountains, even a couple of the heavies.

Yes, he and my uncles just couldn’t resist the thrill of setting off those thunder boomers, even though they were illegal as hell.

Every family has a little larceny in them. Some more than others.

When the Fourth of July finally arrived, we stuffed ourselves silly with food and drink; the adults imbibing on a seemingly endless supply of beer and wine, while the children were getting sugar highs from all of the soda pop.

We played a few games, like croquet and badminton, in the back yard.

Then we headed down to the beach for some swimming, sand castle-building, Frisbee and football. That’s where we stayed for the remainder of our celebration.

Until the cops showed up.

It was inevitable. We were playing with fireworks where they were illegal — what did we expect?

“We’ll be fine,” I was told by one of the responsible adults who had cracked open another beer.

Yeah, okay. Whatever.

Thus, we played with fire, dancing around in circles with our sparklers and watching the fountains of flame shower down upon the sand.

Then it happened.

Dad instructed me and the other children to clear the area as the big rockets were prepped. He and my uncles also persuaded a few other beach-goers to leave; but not without being sworn at for doing something totally illegal.

There was a brief confrontation out of that, too, but Dad and his brothers were each well over six feet tall. Who was really going to do anything beyond argue with them anyway?

As Dad lit the fuse, I pressed my hands firmly against my ears. I couldn’t even handle the sound of lawn mowers up close, so rockets were way out of the question.

Suddenly, I saw a burst of light and a tail of fire as the first heavy shot up into the sky. Moments later, there was a bright explosion and massive concussion.

I could feel the sand beneath my feet rumble a little. Despite covering my ears, the sound was still unnerving.

I noticed one of my uncles perched up on a dune, surveying the street and parking lot behind us like he was keeping watch. If you were doing something illegal, wouldn’t you?

Then the next rocket was set, lit and sent shooting into the sky above, where it burst into a million fiery pieces with a thunderous roar.

Well, that was that. The big show was over.

Or was it?

No sooner had Dad cleaned up the launch area that the uncle on look-out came jogging down from the dune, signaling “Five-0” behind him.

Dad and his brothers hastily gathered up the leftovers, while my aunts ushered the kids to an area behind some trees, where Mom joined us.

“Stay quiet,” Dad said.

Then we watched and waited, because the red and blue lights now in the parking lot weren’t from fireworks.

I could see a tinge of worry on Mom’s face as a couple of flashlights approached Dad and his siblings.

I suppose she wasn’t too thrilled about the prospect of having to bail Dad out of the cooler; on Independence Day, no less, and with her children in tow.

I can’t say I blamed her. I didn’t exactly want to see my family escorted off the beach in handcuffs. Embarrassing would have been an understatement.

We were too far away to hear the conversation between Dad, his siblings and the officers. But I gather they did some mighty smooth talking and a lot of lying to come away without so much as a verbal warning.

My family was skilled at playing dumb, too, so it’s likely they had pulled one over on John Law.

Dad and his siblings were lucky. A hefty citation or arrest would have put a damper on our family’s celebration and ruined it for everyone.

I guess that’s the moral of my story. If you intend to break the law, you take the chance that you will get caught and have to face the music.

I don’t mean the Star Spangled Banner, either.

Remember that personal use of fireworks is prohibited in Carson City and other communities of Northern Nevada for a reason.

Live in these parts long enough and you come to develop a healthy fear of wildfire and the devastation it can cause.

It’s not worth the risk, folks, no matter how pretty those bombs bursting in air appear or how fun it is to dance around a shower of bright sparks.

Please leave the fireworks to authorized professionals and give our hard-working first-responders a break, too.

End of sermon.

Brett Fisher is a former journalist and writer residing in Carson City.