Small Town USA #4

Ok, let me back up and explain why I’m so passionate about lighting off my own fireworks. And no, I don’t think every Tom, Dick, and Sally should be allowed to light their own. Let’s be honest — fireworks are dangerous. And they’re even more dangerous when they fall into the wrong hands, especially adults with alcohol. Sometimes even the “good kids” do stupid shit when left unsupervised. Especially a group of prepubescent boys growing up in a small Eastern Washington town in the late 1980s.

These were the good ol’ days of celebrating the 4th and learning what it meant to survive this glorious holiday. Most small towns back then allowed firework stands to open two weeks early, and we were permitted to light them off three days before the actual 4th! That posed a few unforeseen problems to an impatient 10-year-old boy who, like a first-time virgin, blew his load quicker than the 4th would come and go. I mean, we’d spend every last cent on fireworks leading up to that special day, and for some of us, we just couldn’t wait — hence, the load I was talking about blowing.

My parents took extreme measures to keep me from going “crazy” over those colorful temptresses of combustion. They even went down to the local Lion’s Club stand and asked that they not sell me fireworks without their presence or a note. Like I’ve admitted before, I was not the easiest child to rear — despite the frequent beatings with the wooden spoon. I just couldn’t be stopped once I decided something was worth pursuing. And to me, those forbidden beauties that emitted an array of colors and sparkles lighting up the night sky — it was pure magic. It might’ve just been our front driveway on Jefferson Street, but to me, it was a moment in time that lingers like the vanishing smoke left behind from a night of memories only a child can truly appreciate. This truly was — and still is — a rite of passage.

But enough about the warm and fuzzy memories of childhood 4ths gone by. Let me tell you another side of the 4th — a bit more sinister to some of the aforementioned pussies. Local stands opened two weeks before the holiday in our town and many others around the state. These stands were great for the basics — “safe and sane” shit — but couldn’t compete with the BIG BOOM BOOMS you could find up at the Spokane Indian Reservation.

Specifically, Ford, WA was always a favorite spot to pick up contraband and smuggle it back across county lines. The local authorities took this shit seriously at times, threatening search and seizure of illegal fireworks. Not sure how true the rumors were about law enforcement diverting resources to stop families smuggling the BIG BOOM BOOMS off the Great Reservation of the Spokane Indian, but my dad always said it had more to do with cheap smokes being funneled into Spokane gas stations than anything else.

My parents, law-abiding to a fault, wouldn’t touch anything illegal. If not for my best friend’s parents, I might never have experienced the Rez and all the cheap smokes and fireworks a kid could dream of. All the hand-painted signs for miles outside the reservation, splashed with crooked lettering and prices for firecrackers and bottle rockets — it was heaven. Eventually, those signs even showed up in Airway Heights. If you knew where to look, you might sneak a peek at one of these “illegal” outfit’s arsenals in a local paper insert.

Talk about excitement — two best friends sitting in the back of a supped-up Nova, windows down, sun beating on our arms and faces as we roared down the straight country road leading to the small dam and forested area that signaled our approach to the Rez.

My first time standing before one of the largest selections of fireworks I had ever seen — my shoes felt set in concrete, my mouth hung open, and I was completely overwhelmed by the choices. They had everything an aspiring pyrotechnic or future arsonist could dream of. You could even get full sticks of blasting dynamite if you knew where to look and which trailer to go behind.

This was before Randy Weaver, Waco, and OKC, so you didn’t have the ATF sniffing around the Rez like you do now. The stands always had a little trailer or shack attached, holding the back stock and the BIG BOOM BOOMS. Years later I would find out that they sold weed as well.

I was always amazed at how close to the stands they’d “test” some of the products — while smoking a cigarette, no less. You were always kind of on edge as you zig-zagged through tables of fireworks with small explosions going off periodically behind you. Or some really drunk Indian might confuse you with a relative or just another local drunk. There was always a deal to be had, and someone always knew someone’s cousin who could hook it up.

After Ed’s parents did some wheeling and dealing, we helped fill the trunk of the Nova with contraband and cheap smokes. Then we headed deeper into the Reservation. The road was dotted with small shops and buildings selling everything from fireworks and smokes to moonshine and puppies. Ed’s parents had the itch for the Indian casino and cheap prime rib.

Twenty minutes later we pulled into a dusty off-grid campground by the river. Since we couldn’t enjoy the casino due to our age, Ed’s folks figured the next best thing was to leave us alone with some food, pops, and of course — fireworks. Definitely different times, and neither of our parents would’ve won a parent-of-the-year awards.

We started out small. A few M-80s here, a couple bottle rockets over there. Then we turned our attention to anything we could possibly blow up — empty beer cans, glass bottles, even some gopher holes. After a couple hours of destruction and being boys, we sat down under a shaded picnic table. Suddenly, a bird buzzed my head and made another pass at Ed. Apparently, there was a nest right above us, full of baby birds crying out to their mom.

In all my years knowing Eddy, he was never cruel. But something changed in his eyes that day. He grabbed a handful of M-80s and started tying the fuses together. I asked him frantically what he planned to do. He just looked up at the nest full of baby birds and smiled. I begged and pleaded with him not to do it. I even cried and told him if he did, I’d “kick his ass.”

He jumped down off the picnic table and just laughed his ass off at me. I didn’t know he had this sadistic side to him — but he had me going good. For years, he gave me shit about crying over those baby birds. Deep down, I knew he wouldn’t have done it. But like boobs at that age, fireworks can drive a young man wild.

Soon after the near bird massacre, his parents rolled up to report they had broken even. They never asked too many questions, and that day was no different. We piled back into the Nova and made our trek back toward civilization. All we could think about was getting home to find new and creative ways to blow shit up.

The 4th wasn’t just a holiday. It was a test. A tradition. A trial by fire.

And some of us wouldn’t have had it any other way.