Fireworks

I love that after-smell of a spent firecracker. Nothing quite like it at all. The smell alone sears the inside of my nostrils, leaving some kind of rhino-memory, making it possible to somehow remember every single
4th of July since I was a child--in depth. This kind of recall is unlike any other I have known. It places me right back on the risers at the baseball dugout at our nearest school--this is where we began each holiday morning, batting it out, whole families against each other...teams with great names and t-shirts to match. This was the 70's man, anything went: cut-offs, beer can hats, afros. The games started at 8am sharp, while the crackle of the day was still a few hours from tearing into us. The games were strict..and played with a fierce gusto that only a street shaped like a horseshoe with 48 children under the age of 18 knew how to play.
This was how we commenced each 4th of July.
My mother started her 4th of July early. At midnight, she would reach into the bowels of her jewelry box and pull out great wads of old-tyme, Southern-style, firecrackers. She would then prance down the street a few houses with us at her heels, place the mound underneath Charlie Hickey's bedroom window, and light the entire mess aflame. What a way to start the festivities! Mother and Charlie had this little firework thing going for a few years now, nobody sure how it started or why, but everyone DID know that both parties looked forward with anticipation to this event. Upon mothers instructions to "run like mad", after the popping started, us kids would always hear him shout, "Happy 4th Virginia!" Mom would snicker and follow us into the house.."go to bed now, big day tomorrow!" Our father would always stay awake for this event, but never partake in its singular glorious-ness. When he heard us trampling into the house after midnight he would come down the hallway, scratching his head and wondering outloud, "what the hell is wrong with your mother?"
Nothing.. not a thing.