Published: July 03, 2008 07:45 pm         

Leave Fourth of July fireworks to the professionals

It’s a weekend for those most archetypal of American pastimes, creeping in holiday traffic, barbecuing to overindulgence, perspiring profusely on your boat at the lake, or lolling under shade trees in the backyard.

Americans will gather at their favorite campgrounds, picnic areas, recreational sites, lakes, rivers, ballparks, and family retreats to while away their extended holiday weekend.

Some of us will head out to our favorite minor league ballpark to enjoy a professional fireworks display.

Taking in the fireworks at a ballpark is much easier on the eyes and fingers than blasting off rockets in your neighborhood, a practice which is frowned upon by safety experts and law enforcement anyway.

Fire officials do not recommend keeping flammable, explosive and volatile cargos in or around the home/garage or transporting combustible commodities in the family vehicle — anywhere that they can be detonated by nosy relatives or their prying offspring.

Case in point: Wisconsin fire officials say a 14-year-old boy burned down his family’s mobile home by his careless use of fireworks.

A similar instance occurred several years back when a local youth attempted to display his talents using a potato gun during the family’s Fourth of July celebration.

The overzealous young teen apparently discharged the homemade weapon during a family gathering in the homestead’s kitchen area. The potato projectile, a spud estimated to be about the size of a jumbo cat’s head, exploded from the barrel of a piece of septic tubing, ripping away bits of plaster and drywall before nearly decapitating the boy’s grandfather, who had recently upgraded his hearing aid.

No charges were ever filed by the youth’s family members, some of whom allegedly are still being treated by psychiatrists, but as far as we know there were no other victims, other than grandpa who subsequently had to be hospitalized for eardrum damage. Inquiries about the patriarch’s condition only resulted in unanswered telephone calls.

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As a practical joke some years back, a friend of mine (actually a childhood sidekick) endeavored to play a prank on a rural family who had just relocated to a hillside home in one of the southern counties of the state.

Dave thought it would be a friendly gesture to welcome the newcomers to the rural neighborhood by detonating some of his lethal-sized blockbusters under their front porch at night.

Devising a kind of makeshift time-fuse, from gunpowder rolled up in thin strands of wax paper, and loading his pockets with explosives, Dave climbed up the newly excavated rocky embankment until he reached the rough-timbered foundation of the new frame residence.

He planted the TNT-labeled explosives — which obviously had been stored for safe-keeping prior to recently enacted fireworks laws prohibiting potentially lethal powder charges from being detonated within 500 feet of a dwelling.

Either through his recklessness or spontaneity, Dave failed to weigh the possibility of a calamity, not realizing that people in bed asleep might not take kindly to having their rafters shaken at the dead hour of midnight.

He lit the fuse and ran for cover …

But several hundred yards down the creek bed, Dave listened in vain for the anticipated violent expansion of gasses.

After what seemed a lengthy delay, the youth figured the fuse had gone out.

He retraced his steps until he again approached the site of his intended holiday joke.

As he drew near, he noticed a spark that made his heart sink with immortal woe.

Then the fuse burst into furious ignition which resulted in a thunderous finale.

Every light and lamp in the entire structure, perched there on its stilt-like studs, suddenly illuminated the dampening darkness.

Then a shotgun blast reverberated through the smoky haze which seemingly had enveloped the hillside abode. The pellets rained down on two reckless youth in desperate flight.

To this day, I have never divulged that I was a witness to the infamous night discharge that caused a good-natured family to flee from an otherwise quiet and peaceful neighborhood.

No one knew of their departure and no one learned of their subsequent fate.

All I know is that Dave and I apparently got away with a joke-gone-awry that could have resulted in serious injury, let alone prosecution.

I was never confronted with accusation, except for that one time many years later when my father asked me if I knew anything about the riotous, foolhardy deed that was perpetrated by a pair of seeming low-life scoundrels.

“Heavens no,” I responded with feigned honesty.

But I think he sensed the truth; he always saw right through me.

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Top o’ the morning!

— Blankenship is a columnist for The Register-Herald.

E-mail: jabbb@suddenlink.net