My mother refused to allow me near fireworks. It sucked because everyone I knew could be near them and light them. I begged and begged but she wouldn’t budge. That was until July 4, 1979.
My mother came home that night with a bag full of skyrockets. Like fifty in a plastic shopping bag. “Surprise!”
I grabbed the bag out of her hand and headed towards the door. “Where are you going? We’re going to light them up here.”
I didn’t think that was such a good idea but, you know, she was my mom and the most adult out of the two of us so I bit. “How are we going to do it here?”
She opened the living room window in our eighth floor apartment and said, ‘This is where!”
So there we were mother and son shooting skyrockets out of our window on a warn July 4th evening. She lit every single one of them. I was only allowed to hand them to her.
Then something went wrong. I handed her a skyrocket, she lit the thing and when she let it go, it tangled into our living room drapes and started popping all over again. The drape were on fire.
Several sparks managed to catch the bag with the rest of the skyrockets and they lighted and took off in our living room. My mother grabbed me and ran towards the adjacent kitchen hoping the carnage would soon end. Once the popping mostly subsided, she ran into the living room with a large pot filled with water to douse the flames.
That was the last time I had dealings with fireworks.