I will be at The Beach for the Fourth. “The Beach” is my friends/family’s place on Camano Island, the spot we’ve been going to for summer holidays for more than twenty years. For us, the Fourth, is steeped in traditions, explosives are key.
A standard Fourth of July activity in our group is called Tank Wars, the gist of which is to amend a basic cardboard tank firework with other burnable elements–smoke bombs and snakes and firecrackers–and then aim your burly tank at the other burly tanks, and set the things on fire. It’s completely dumb, and very fun.
My eight-year-old nephews have more than $400.00 set aside for buying fireworks, money gleaned from extra chores and saved birthday gifts. The have already spent hours shopping the fireworks stands, assessing the selections, comparing prices, scheming the final display.
Their father, he has a reputation as a fire fiend (wonder where the children got their bent?). Dad’s youth included inventing ways to melt little green plastic army guys, but more spectacularly, launching his sister’s Barbies–burning–into the swimming pool.
My boyfriend, in his youth, would grind his own magnesium powder and craft incendiary devices–cinder blocks and fuses and rockets launched from the roof. He swears that’s all behind him. I doubt it. I believe that fire is elemental, and these boys are permeated with pyro proclivities.
It’s going to be a bangin’ Fourth.