It was the day he got to blow up frogs.
And blow them up real good.
Squeaky and I would go down to the pond on Cole's Farm and catch frogs by the pail. I was never up for blowing up frogs; I preferred burning down the Little Red School House. Nobody got hurt and we school kids delighted at the fact we could commit symbolic arson at least one day of the year.
We didn't have money for the big fireworks, but it didn't matter. Squeaky's dad Art, the rich gladiola baron always put on a show just down the road. On our farm, we'd sit in rickey lawn chairs and eat hot dogs and popsicles while Squeaky's clan had steak and pie.
It was always seemed to me a little unfair, the class difference.
It just reinforced the great divide between poor farmers and rich farmers.
Oh well, we could live vicariously through Art's brood.
I was thinking today about how special life was when we were kids. How there was a new experience around every corner. Catching frogs. Lighting firecrackers. Running around with sparklers.
Savoring a burnt hot dog.
Watching Art's display of grandeur, a virtual party in the sky, while mom slathered us with Deep Woods Off! to keep away the black flies.
Everything was bigger, better back then.
We didn't worry about "added preservatives" in our dogs. We just knew they tasted pretty damned good.
Happy Fireworks Day!