Every year, for the 4^th of July, Dad would take us to the best fireworks stand in the area. My brothers and I always looked forward to the excitement that came from buying things that sparkled and glowed or made terrifying noises for no useful purpose.

In the sixties the selection of fireworks was huge, and most of it not exactly kid friendly.  There were roman candles, cherry bombs and M-80’s.  Of course, there were some tamer items as well.  Things like sparklers and lady finger firecrackers were my preference.  However, my older brother Larry, favored the biggest, baddest fireworks available.

He would use most of his allocation on M-80 firecrackers and cherry bombs, but he always saved a little of his budget for bottle rockets. In retrospect, it is hard to understand how bottle rockets were even allowed.  When you think about the damage that could be done if one went awry, the rockets were kind of risky business. Maybe that’s what made them so popular.

After the shopping trip, we would display our bounty on the kitchen counter, admiring the variety and potential chaos that we had purchased.  Mom never seemed as enthused as we were, but despite her instincts, she didn’t confiscate what clearly looked like trouble.  She reminded us to be careful and sent us out to celebrate with the rest of the neighborhood kids.

There must have been a dozen kids in the street tossing poppers, lighting charcoal snakes and scaring the neighborhood pets. We joined in with enthusiasm.  Eventually most of our stock was depleted but Larry had his prized bottle rockets yet to fire off.  This was serious business.  He wanted to gain maximum height and range, and the best launching pad was on the slope in our backyard.

He found an empty pop bottle, gathered up the rockets and matches and headed to the highest spot in the yard.  The site was almost perfect.  It gave two choices for releasing the rockets.  One path led to a stand of fir trees and the only other path (if you wanted to avoid our house) faced the neighbor’s back yard.  His yard was nothing but rocks and dirt.  Additionally, the owner was a contentious old man who yelled at us every chance he got.  I think Larry was savoring the idea of sending a few rockets his way. And after all, what damage could really be done?

And then we noticed it. Angled in the back corner of the lot was an old Chevy.  The car had certainly seen better days, it was rusty and scratched, perched precariously on a set of blocks.

It looked to me like the launch was off.  It was one thing to annoy the neighbor by shooting rockets into the rocks, but something else entirely when there was a target in the mix.  My brother, however, was not deterred.  He was convinced the rockets didn’t have the range to make it to the far corner and even if they did, “so what?”  How much damage could a simple little bottle rocket do to the scratched and dented frame of the Chevy?

With the drama of a Cape Canaveral launch, he positioned the rocket and bottle on a small piece of plywood and began a countdown. When he reached “blast-off” he lit the fuse and stood back.  The rocket blew out of the bottle with amazing force.  It sailed across the yard, arced over the fence and headed directly toward the Chevy.  We both held our breadth as it began its brief descent. It seemed unlikely that it would reach the car, but even if it did, we were still confident it couldn’t do any real damage.

However, we had not noticed the open window directly in the path of the rocket.  As if by design, the rocket sailed gracefully through that window and landed on the front seat of the car.  We couldn’t believe it, but even worse, we couldn’t believe the flames that quickly appeared.  The upholstery, no doubt dry and brittle, had simply erupted.  And then, as quickly as it started, the fire disappeared. 

Now we were left with a terrible dilemma.  The fire appeared to be out, but we knew we had to check. What if things were still smoldering and an even bigger catastrophe was in the making?

As quietly as possible, we made our way to the neighbor’s house.  As far as we could tell he wasn’t home, so we took a chance and scrambled over the fence to assess the damage.  At the car, we could see the remains of the rocket as well as the scorched upholstery.  But what we also noticed was damaged and discolored fabric that the rocket hadn’t touched.  The inside of the car was a wreck, and Larry’s rocket hadn’t really made it any worse.

Without any discussion, Larry eased open the door and retrieved the remains of the rocket.  He brushed the ashes to the floor and easily pulled the bits of the burnt upholstery out.

Quietly, we made our exit and headed back out front where the rest of the neighborhood was still blowing things up with abandon. We never really told anyone about the rocket that had gone astray. It was our little secret long after the holiday was over—just like it had never even happened.