Ketchup

When they started to make wide-mouth ketchup jars, like mustard, didn’t you wonder why in heaven’s sake that wasn’t done years ago? But then, we would have never known what “anticipation” felt like if it wasn’t for Carly Simon. Personally, I don’t care for the stuff, but strangely, I do know that it tastes pretty good on a Gala apple. One of those experiences gained on a road trip in West-by God-Virginia.

The Neighbors put on a heck of a Fourth of July party on Friday. If not one of the best parties I’ve been to. Ketchup came in squeeze bottles and I wolfed down two hot dogs. It’s official. It’s summer and this coming week we are going into the 90’s. Yeah.

In New York it is illegal to buy, sell, transport, possess, set off or even think about fireworks. I was raised in the Empire State and fireworks were illegal back in those days too. One day a kid from Fowler Lane boarded the school bus with his hand all wrapped up. Word had already spread about what had happened. He blew part of his thumb and forefinger off fooling around with firecrackers. Although illegal, we managed to acquire them. Someone always had an older brother. The contraband came from neighboring states or Canada.

Getting a hold of a sparkler or firecracker was just as much of a summer ritual as picking berries, laying in the hay fields, hiking the ravine or tearing down the hill on your bike toward Danda’s , the mom and pop small store on Route 9 where for ten cents you bought a YooHoo before making the ascent toward home. Man, what an innocent childhood.

In the middle of that little dirt road I grew up on – safety precaution, didn’t want to burn down the house – my brother, sister and I ignited firecrackers. We got away with it because Dad was at work and Mom was deaf, and the three of us swore secret allegiances to each other.

Pop, pop, pop. The resonating explosions lingered in our ear drums. That was the extent of the experience. The acidic odor of gun powder. The lingering trail of gray smoke. Mike made sure we stayed clear of the smoke; otherwise, we’d come home smelling suspicious and what Mom lost in sound, she made up for in scent.

After living in Tennessee and Florida where any fool can find any sort of fireworks at pop-up roadside stands, fireworks seem like a harmless holiday ritual. Granted, like I said any fool…and accidents happen. But then any fool can buy a car, a bottle of Ketchup, a lawn mower or a Tickle-Me-Elmo. Last year, I sat outside my condo and watched the neighbors across the canal blow off so many fireworks it looked like a New England fog rolled in. A drive down Highway 19 treated motorist to a long display of rockets red glare.

Friday night, I sat back on the neighbor’s lawn enjoying an impressive arsenal. Under the close supervision of parent, kids stood holding their sparklers. Not since the French and English pre-revolutionary war skirmishes on the corner of Gailor and Parkhurst roads has there been that much gun powder in the vicinity. And not since Mr. Stroup entertained the neighborhood with his Canadian contraband had I seen that much explode in the sky over the hills of Kings Station.

The two guys on detail periodically paused. “Listen. Listen…what was that?” one would ask.

The other replied, “Those sirens aren’t coming up here.” And they proceeded to fire off a few more rounds to the delight of the crowd.

After one particularly long barrage the sheriff finally pulled into the driveway. He politely asked if we were done. He assured us he didn’t want to come back. The message delivered. The following night, our neighbor finished off his rounds.