By Jane D. O’Donoghue
Special to PRIME
All day older kids let off firecrackers – some carefully, other carelessly – as we watched in fascination. There was a great variety of explosives and smaller harmless types to be lit by punks. We settled for snakes, lady fingers, and the inevitable sparklers. Salutes placed in cracks of telephone poles, made the cracks bigger. Some daringly held those salutes in their hands as long as their courage and daring lasted.
The noise, the anticipation, the fear, and the unmistakable smell, helped to build the excitement.
At dusk we formed a cheery group of mother, four sisters, infant brother, many cousins, one aunt and uncle. We wended our way along with other early arrivals, to Van Horn Park Reservoir. The hillside was filling up with neighborhood friends anticipating an exciting evening. It was the 4th of July, a warm summer night, and the fireworks show was finally here.
We found ample room to spread our blankets on the banks of the pond, and watched as hawkers selling souvenirs and summer treats worked their way through the crowd that was forming. We did not covet or yearn for anything, knowing it was impossible.
Our uncle left us, following a vendor up the slope. Several minutes later, he returned laden with boxes of Cracker Jack.
As he doled them out to each child in our group, we shouted our amazement at his generosity. Over the rising noise of the crowd, our voices could be heard echoing the same question, “A box for each of us? A box for each of us?”
The fireworks, now almost an anti-climax for us, burst forth on time, much to the delight of the now huge crowd. We shouted out for our traditional right to name the next volley for ourselves. You had to be quick, and it was understood the grand finale could not be claimed by anyone. The culmination – with fighting battleships and the American flag – lit up the opposite shore, offering a unique reflective view on the water.
The grownups, and sleepy children, made their way home to a surprise and a mystery. Once home, we found Felix, our fertile cat, resting in her box with her most recent litter of kittens. Only days old, the tiny ones huddled close to mom. The box was on the floor of the kitchen closet and in addition to the cat family, it now contained a flat iron. This evidently fell from a shelf above. As we looked closer, we discovered the tail of one kitten was missing, obviously chopped off by the falling iron. After a thorough search, we couldn't find the tail. My mother assumed that Felix had probably eaten it, as an inherent survival instinct.
What a night, a box of Cracker Jack for each of us, fireworks, and the missing tail. That was excitement to last for a long time, and never to be forgotten.
Jane D. O’Donoghue is a Hungry Hill native and retired school librarian. Her writing has appeared in local and regional publications.
