Fourth of July

Copyright 2003 W. Bruce Cameron — Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

Back before it occurred to anyone that maybe little children shouldn't run around with explosives, the Fourth of July held only one meaning for me and my young pals: demolition. Toy models of ships, cars, and airplanes, carefully constructed of painfully small plastic parts over the previous year, were spectacularly destroyed using cherry bombs and M-80's. When we annihilated our supply of these items, we'd turn to cans, glass bottles, and anything belonging to our sisters.

Ask us about the true meaning of Independence Day and our faces would have gone blank: we called it "Firecracker Day," and didn't see the need to muck it up with any historical references.

The problem with firecrackers was their cost. My mother refused to acknowledge my sloppily scrawled additions to her shopping lists when they said "Bottel Rokits" and "Firewerks." Since my income at the time consisted exclusively of selling my teeth to the tooth fairy and mining coins from under the couch cushions, it wasn't long before I ran out of funds for explosives. One summer it wasn't even July before I was out of ammunition, which was particularly vexing because I hadn't yet blown up my sister's Barbie Dream Car.

That's when my friend Drake introduced me to a solution which changed my life forever. Fireworks were sold by sweaty men standing behind long tables piled high with product—we were so short we could barely see what we were buying. What Drake showed me was that with a quick dart of our tiny hands, our pockets would soon be filled with cherry bombs, and the big men would never even notice us.

Yes, we were stealing.

That we lacked any moral brakes on our behavior is probably less an indication of an evil core than a much more basic problem: we were dimwits. As evidence, you need only look to what we did with our ill gotten gains—we held a super explosive summer spectacular in the middle of the street, vaporizing a Barbie Dream Car and a ceramic cat from a "shelf of junk" at Drake's house (When his mother later accused us of having something to do with the disappearance of her "figurines," we truthfully had no idea what she was talking about).

The destructive display attracted the attention of most of the kids in the neighborhood, including Drake's older sister, who, after peering suspiciously at our mouths to verify we still had our smiles intact, jumped to the easy conclusion that we were criminals. Drake was accused and confessed even before he could be read his Miranda rights—though in his account, it was Evil Bruce who beckoned him into felony, while he stood by and protested that we "shouldn't be doing this."

I figured I'd deal with Drake later. My big problem of the moment was that my father was home, and it was to him that Drake's mother delivered her indictment, while I did an end run and confessed to my mother, nearly knocking her over with the force of throwing myself on the mercy of her court.

I have never seen my father so angry. There was nothing "boys will be boys" about this: I was in big trouble. I went upstairs and put on all my underpants in preparation for the spanking to come.

When my father told me I would have to make restitution to the fireworks company, I breathed a sigh of relief. Heck, if I had any money, I wouldn't have stolen in the first place! But I had underestimated the criminal justice system: I possessed a resource I hadn't even thought of, a coin collection proudly displayed on my shelf.

Now, I have no idea what was the cash worth of my horde—it consisted of a silver dollar given me by my grandpa, a subway token, and other items of primarily sentimental value. Yet the collection was my most prized possession, the only thing I owned which gave me a sense of pride. When I handed it over to the men at the fireworks tent, my face was wet with tears.

I have no idea what they thought of this broken hearted boy and his fistful of funny money. I only know my father taught me a lesson that summer which I will never forget.

Write to Bruce.

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