Hurray for Sparklers!

When I was a kid, the 4th of July was all about the sparklers. I didn't care about the hot dogs, the homemade fried chicken or even the potato salad. I didn't care about the huge block party we had every year. I didn't even care about decorating my bike for our parade-even though I was positive that Suzy, who was my rival for our mutual best friend Cherie, was going to have the best decorated bike that evening and thus, win the admiration of all, including Cherie. I didn't care about that-even though under normal circumstances I would have done my best to outdo Suzy.

I didn't even care that this night was the only night that my mom let me stay up way past my bedtime because, as mom said, who wants to watch the firework displays during the day? None of that mattered to me. Not staying up late, not winning my best friend's sole affections, not even food.

Nope. For me, it was all about the sparklers.

I loved them. I couldn't get enough of them. When I ran out of my two-package allotment, I would beg my sisters to give up theirs. If that didn't work, I'd threaten them. And if that didn't work, I'd go to my mom and sob hysterically until she gave me just one more sparkler.

Of course, that was back in the bad old days when you gave a kid a punk and a package of sparklers and they went off into the hot July night, trying to ignite family and friends. Back when our fireworks weren't safe and certainly weren't being lit by sane Dads-who were all trying to outdo each other in the "who can make the most smoke and/or catch the lawn on fire" contest.

Gee, I really loved those days.

I remember being at the party, holding my sparklers out (usually one for each hand, plus the punk, while I held the sparkler boxes between my knees). I'd write my name in the air. I'd drip sparkler stuff on the street. I'd wave those things above my head. And all of the kids would chase each other, trailing sparks as we ran around the driveways.

Now, of course, people would think my parents were insane. I mean, they handed FIRE to three little girls who defined the term "sibling rivalry." And we ran around unsupervised. My mom certainly did not chase us down through the entire party. She was too busy comparing potato salad recipes and gossiping about the neighbors down the street who never, ever had been to church.

And my dad was far too busy with the other men as they got in touch with their inner caveman and created fire-er, fireworks. Dad was too busy making sure his Roman Candles flew higher than the other dads' Roman Candles. Or that his Whistling Pete's whistled louder. Or his smoke bombs were smokier. There was no way he could watch us running around trying to light our hair on fire.

So we were free and full of danger. And I think that's what made it fun.

I mean, what other day of the year does a parent had a kid something burning and say, "here you go-run around and watch the sparks." That just doesn't happen. No parent on earth would ever think of handing a kid a pack of matches and saying, "take these and go outside to play."

But something crazy happens to parents on Independence Day. They freely hand fire to their children and expect that they run around with it. As a child, I thought it was wonderful. As a parent, I've had my doubts.

I mean, I look at Junior, who has to be reminded frequently that brushing your teeth daily is a rule in our house, and I wonder how I could possibly trust him with fire. And then the 4 th arrives and I find myself handing over the sparklers.

Because even though I'm the parent now-I still remember those hot July celebrations. The nights when I ran around writing my name in sparks. The nights I spent running through the smoke clouds that the neighborhood dads created. And the nights I watched in awe as Roman Candles lit up the sky.

But just in case, I'll have a fire extinguisher waiting nearby. You never know about those kids and sparklers-and I'd rather be safe and sane while creating new Independence Day memories.

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