Sparks Will Fly
By Russell Fee
On the Fourth of July of my tenth year, my enduring faith in my grandfather’s infallibility went up in smoke, both metaphorically and literally.
I was enjoying the holiday with my extended family and looking forward to the lighting of the fireworks which lay ready in boxes stacked on my grandparents' porch. My four cousins and I had combed through the boxes, minutely examining the assorted classes of fireworks and discussing the incendiary merits of each. One box, however, demanded our repeated attention. It contained the vaunted, almost mythical, Cherry Bomb firecrackers or “salutes” as the adults called them.
We were beside ourselves with excitement at my grandfather’s promise to allow each of us to light and toss a Cherry Bomb as a flash-bang opening to the night's pyrotechnics. As a ten-year-old boy, I saw this as a proffer of unimaginable largess. Looking back, I see it now as a colossal failure of adult supervision, fueled, no doubt, by my grandfather’s liberal consumption of beer. However, to his credit, he insisted on first giving us a lesson in the proper ignition and pitch of the “salute” and then overseeing our efforts.
My grandfather was an inveterate cigar smoker. In my memory of him, he is never without one: stabbing the air with it to punctuate a salient point, waiving it above his thinning hair as he wove together the strands of a story, tweezering it between two fingers of a limp wrist as he relaxed in his favorite wingback chair. The always-lit cigar filled the air with that smoky sweet aroma. A Havana was ever present with him on this occasion.
The day cooled with the approach of a cloudless evening, perfect for the upcoming display. As my uncles set up the fireworks, my grandfather gathered the five of us for the required instructions. Then holding a Cherry Bomb between the index finger and thumb of his left hand and his cigar in his right hand, he admonished us to listen carefully. “First,” he said, “you touch the tip of the fuse with a lit punk, which I will hand to you, and the instant the fuse starts to burn, you toss the firecracker away from you as far as you can. Now watch how it's done.”
He puffed three times on his cigar until the end glowed red. Then he touched the fuse of the Cherry Bomb with the hot ash. It immediately sprang to life, and my grandfather, with a quick swing of his arm, tossed his cigar high into the air. Before the smoldering stogie reached the apex of its trajectory, the firecracker—still held firmly in his left hand—exploded.
My grandfather’s preternatural howl of pain brought my grandmother running from the house. She instantly and correctly assessed the situation. “You damn fool. What the hell did you think you were doing? And in front of the kids no less. Get yourself into the kitchen so I can stop that bleeding.” I should note here that my strongly held notion of my grandmother’s infinite compassion also crumbled at that moment.
My recollection is that the festivities did not conclude with this mishap but continued well past midnight; the hefty investment in booze and gunpowder forbidding otherwise.
The loss of the tip-end of two fingers did not persuade my grandfather to give up cigars, but he did stay well away from fireworks for the rest of his life.
THE END
Author Bio: Russell Fee is the author of the multi-award-winning Sheriff Matt Callahan mystery series. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in such journals as The Galway Review, Short Beasts Literary Magazine, Killer Nashville Magazine, Literally Stories, Short Circuit, Spaceports & Spidersilk, Sci Phi Journal, Hemingway Shorts, Star 82 Review, Winamop, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Spank the Carp. To learn more about Russ and his writing, please visit his website at outerislandpress.com.