Nothing Says “American Independence” Like Almost Lighting Your House on Fire

Whiting, Indiana, where my extended family lives, is a lawless land when it comes to the Fourth of July. Unlike the vast majority of the United States, there are very few laws related to regulating these explosive rockets, and the few that there were were promptly ignored when July rolled around. Tents went up in the parking lots of abandoned and derelict stores, with crotchety old men who most certainly did not have permits to be selling explosives offering you cherry bombs and whipper snappers by the pound. Roman candles and other large fireworks meant to be set off in the sky high above the reach of children were shot off in backyards and out the windows of apartment buildings. If you drove through Whiting after the sun set on the Fourth, you would be convinced you were in a warzone, with all of the loud booms and the large, colorful explosions lighting up the sky. As a child, it was exhilarating. As an adult, it’s sort of terrifying. But I guess when your town is on the verge of collapse and decay daily, a little fire now and then isn’t much to worry about.

My immediate family lived in Michigan, and with the long hours my family worked, it was rare that we visited with our extended family around the Fourth of July. However, one year when I was around 12 years old, my father’s side of the family decided to gather all of the cousins, uncles, and aunts in my grandparent’s home to celebrate American Independence (despite the fact that my father’s family had come over to America long after the Revolution had ended). Apart from Christmas, it was pretty much the only times my sister and I got to spend with our cousins, so we were very excited. Since we lived several hours away, our stays with our grandparents tended to extend longer than everyone elses, and on this particular occasion, we arrived two days before the big day. After a day spent helping my grandparents prepare for the party and surely driving them out of their mind with the addition of four extra bodies in a small kitchen, they promptly sent my father, mother, sister, and I out to buy the fireworks.

We drove through the rough and crumbling seats of Whiting, buzzing with excitement. After a lap or two of the town, my father settled on a red and white striped tent pitched in the middle of a department store’s parking lot and with a large, handwritten sign that red “Fireworks for Sale” in red marker haphazardly taped over the tent flaps. We pulled into a spot and excitedly exited the van, before rushing into the tent. Rockets with stripes and painted flames on them lined the walls. Bins overflowing with snakes, cherry bombs, and small fountains crowded the foldable tables that created a small winding path through the fireworks. My dad snatched one of the baskets clearly stolen from inside the store in whose parking lot this tent had been set up in, and we began to pick out our favorites.

Whippersnappers (or bang snaps) were always a classic favorite (and a time honored tradition of whipping the small little packages of gunpowder at each other’s feet was crucial to our family gathering), so we piled enough for everyone to have two boxes into the basket. To this we added Roman candles (meant to be placed in a bucket before being shot off into the sky, but in Whiting held in one’s hand like a magic wand), sparklers, and dozens of fountains ranging from modest to “definitely would start a forest fire if something happened” in size. Finally, tucked away in the back of the tent, was the novelty section. A firework in the shape of a chicken that screamed and “laid” fiery eggs, a folded up square that opened up into a pagoda, and a tank that moved and shot little flaming pellets were added to the sagging basket, and as we turned to go pay for our fireworks, I spotted something else. They were little disks, designed to look like an alien spaceship. When lit, they spin around in a circle before shooting up into the air and zooming around a few times before crashing back down. Needless to day, my younger self was enthralled. I quickly snatched four of them up and plopped them in the basket. My father smiled and my sister and I stood by as my father paid the old gentleman in the camping chair who was missing a few fingers on his left hand (probably a bad sign looking back at it now). We loaded up our goods into the trunk of our car and sped back off to my grandparents house.

The next day, most of our family arrived by mid-afternoon. We laughed, ate hotdogs and burgers, and spent time outside getting burned in the sun (our pasty nature betraying us). The excitement among the cousins was palpable, for we all knew that in my grandparent’s kitchen sat the box of fireworks. After the food was eaten and stories had been told, the cousins rallied together to beg for some fiery fun. First out were the whippersnappers and the sparklers. We waved the sparking and crackling wands in the air as we chased after one another in my grandparents’ small backyard. We laughed and my uncle (a police officer, mind you) showed us how to squeeze the small packets of gunpowder just right between our fingers to set them off in a nerve-wracking, but exciting pop. We quickly ran out of these and moved on to cherry bombs and snakes, setting them off on the small cement sidewalk that stretched from my grandparent’s house to their garage. The novelty fireworks, much better to be set off when we could see them rather than waiting for the darkness of night, were up next. The pagoda and tank went off without a hitch, and the bird (which my cousin affectionately named the “pooping chicken”) quickly became a fan favorite.

Finally, we got to the flying saucers that I had picked out. I helped my dad and uncles set them up (after my other uncle had suggested we set all four of them off at once to create a “fleet” of alien ships), and the cousins stepped back to our “safe” spot a few feet away. The fuses were lit, and after a moment of silence, the disks began to spin. They started out slow, but gradually picked up speed, spinning faster and faster and leaving circular burn marks on the sidewalk. Suddenly, with a great whirr, all four of them shot up into the air.

It was a moment of amazement, followed by absolute pandemonium. Turns out that all that spinning meant that the disks didn’t necessarily go straight up; instead, they shot out in four different directions. Flaming disks of death came whirring towards us. My cousins shrieked and my uncle dropped to the ground to avoid getting smacked directly in the face with one. One of the disks rose straight up into the air and fell back down, landing on the sidewalk in a fiery crash. Another shot off towards the grill where the rest of the family was sitting (luckily, my grandfather slammed the lid of the grill down before the firework landed in the flames, and then proceeded to kick it away from everyone else and onto the cement patio). Another scraped along the dilapidated garage, leaving a long scorch mark across its western side that still remains to this day. The final rocket (the one that seemed to be coming right for the cousins) zoomed around in the air for a moment before promptly dropping into the grass and starting a small fire. My uncles ran over and began stomping on the flaming wreckage, while my mother grabbed the hose and began spraying the area, quickly dowsing all of us in the proximity. After a few moments, the blaze had been put out, and we all stood there, stunned and soaked. After a moment, we heard a laugh from behind us. Turning around, we saw my grandmother doubled over in laughter. Soon she was joined by my father and aunt, and eventually all of us were laughing.

“Best Fourth of July ever!” my grandfather shouted from his station near the grill.

“The Laurinec luck strikes again!” replied my Uncle, referring to the running joke our family has about the terrible fortune that all of us seem to have inherited from my grandparents. The next door neighbors (a grumpy old pair) came out to see all of us laughing and giggling like school children before annoyedly returning inside and closing their windows. Eventually, the laughs petered out, and the festivities continued. Undeterred, we continued setting off fireworks deep into the night. To this day, when I visit my grandparents and see the scorch mark along the side of the garage, I can’t help but smile a little. What a great story I’ll get to tell my nieces and nephews some day about the day I nearly burned down my grandparent's house.