The Fifth of July

Many years ago after our annual family 4th of July picnic and after-dark fireworks, I spent the night with my Uncle Dick, his dad, and his grandma. His dad was my Grandpa Dobson, and his grandma was my Great- Grandma Dobson. As I recall I was about 7 at the time, and Dick was 12. Being older, smarter, and more sophisticated than I, he came up with the ideas for our entertainment. To that end he had saved a few firecrackers from the night before. They were the type that were in a strip--each one-inch fire-cracker attached to the next with paper. We considered them harmless. I'm sure they were intended to be pulled apart and lighted one at a time, but everyone knows you get a bigger bang if you leave 2 or 3 together. If you are 12 and fearless, you might even light the whole strip at once.

Well, Dick's plan for this July 5 was to climb to the second floor of the large square farm house, go out onto the upper porch, attach a fire cracker (or a small strip of fire crackers) to a fish hook attached to a fishing line and pole. Step 2 was to light the fire cracker(s) and then, using the fishing pole, reel out the lighted weapon over the bannister down to scare Rex, the dog, napping on the stoop below.
Genius! Dick was the master trickster, and I was his assistant.

We gathered the necessary equipment and crept through the dim upstairs bedroom onto the seldom-used porch. The bannister was fairly high, and so to get a glimpse of the sleeping Rex, I had to stand with my bare feet on a holey, musty, green army blanket which was crumpled in the corner. We peered over the edge and took a look at Rex. We giggled at the prospect of scaring the living daylights out of him.

I don't know if you realize this or not, but the fuse on those little fire crackers is not long, and Dick's first few attempts at the plan resulted in premature explosions. Each time a blast went off, I imagined that my legs were being burned or pierced. I shrieked for him to stop. He took one look at my legs and yelled, "Yellow jackets!" At that, we tore through the door, raced through the upstairs, and thundered screaming down the stairs. We crashed through the door at the bottom of the stairs in the following order: Dick, me, and the bees.

The sound effects were largely lost on Grandma Dobson, who was essentially deaf, sitting in the kitchen with her crochet hook and thread. She must have felt the vibrations from our wild stampede down the stairs though because she didn't seem surprised. But she was mad, even madder than the bees. Being a near invalid, she moved very slowly and painstakingly and spent most of her days sitting in a chair. However, she was quite well enough to scold Dick roundly and remind him that he should KNOW better!

This lecture didn't rescue us as we were still under attack from the ill-tempered bees which we had disturbed from their home in the army blanket. Though it takes me a long time to stop the hysterics after such an experience, and Grandma Dobson was no help, Dick and I somehow managed to get outside to the back step where we were able to defeat some of the enemy and drive off the rest, catch our breath, and doctor our wounds.

Rex, meanwhile, dozed contentedly--the living daylights still safely within him.