rocket's red glare

money. when you are a kid, you don't think of how necessary it is. you figure out soon enough though that money gets you the things you covet and the things you need. money...it doesn't suck

my father worked for a trucking company and while we had the things we needed, there wasn't much left for the the things they coveted and wanted us to experience. dreams of summer camp, maybe a music lesson here or there...things they never got to experience but wanted us to. money was tight and there was rumor of another teamster strike looming, which would mean weeks to months of abbreviated paychecks from the union. my father decided to act.

a buddy of his turned my father on to a third friend, who had the auspicious title of "firework man". well, that's what we called him once my brother and i found out what he did. the FM had, it seems, a warehouse full of illegal fireworks and sold them to friends and people who had the money and the discretion to not give up their source. the friend of my father's, who understood that times were tight at the Lory household, spoke to his friend and asked if he could help us out. a plan was hatched.

this is when my father, Cub Scout Pack Leader, Knight of Columbus and leader of Navy men during Vietnam, also became a pusher.

In 1970's Las Vegas, any type of fireworks that left the ground or exploded were illegal. Everything was banned beyond the "Fountain of Sparks", string-activated "poppers", sparklers or the stupid "black snakes", a small obsidian pill that, when lit, emitted a noxious cloud of smoke while forming into a snake of ashes. wow. What my father knew, and what I know now, was that we humans hungered for something more...craved things that left the ground in a shower of sparks and fire only to burst into amazing technicolor patterns high above our heads. Things that exploded other things like tuna cans and ant hills. None of this namby-pamby shit for Ingraham Street, NO SIR!!!

But I digress.

One early Saturday morning, Dad, Mark and I pounced into the '72 Chevy Blazer and made our way over to the FM's house. From there, we followed him in his car over to the warehouse. My anticipation level reached that of Olympian proportions; I had heard my parents talking over the dinner table after we had retreated to our rooms for homework. I KNEW what what going on!

The FM opened the door to the warehouse and inside was the most amazing array of fireworks I had ever seen. Row upon row of bottle rockets, roman candles, M-80's, bloom flowers; rockets as big around as my wrist; rockets with 3-foot long sticks; rockets that exploded, whistled and screamed. Not to mention the hundreds of 1000's of firecrackers: Black Cat, China Star...they went on forever.

While Dad and the FM slid over to the side to discuss pricing and process, Mark and I proceeded down the open aisle, our eyes googling at the merchandise before us. While Dad was starting to make a list, we of course made mental lists of our own, vowing to never tell anyone what we had seen under direct orders from our father...but also vowing to break that vow the instant we got home.

Soon, terms were agreed upon and boxes began being loaded into the back of the Blazer. Dad and the FM shook hands once that task was finished and we departed. On the ride home we got the spiel once more about keeping our mouths closed and also to stay out of the boxes. Sure Dad....no problem.

My father, upon leaving the Navy, absconded with a green fatigue jacket, an Eagle tattoo and some green ammo boxes. Some of these kept their initial use as a storage for ammo for Dad's guns; one even had a new life as a first-aid kit (which Mom, the nurse, dutifully kept full). After we arrived home, Dad began unpacking the boxes and started loading the firecrackers into the empty ammo boxes. The rockets he kept in the boxes they arrived in and hid them in their bedroom closet behind Mom's housecoats and Dad's work jeans.

Despite my father's quest to keep as low a profile as possible, suddenly it seemed that everyone knew where to get fireworks for the upcoming July 4th celebration. At dinner, there would be a knock at the door, followed by a furtive glance into the dining room from the interloper while they waited for dad to come back to the living roon with the goods, and then a mumbled thanks as the transaction was completed. Many were the time that underage kids would come to the door and my father would simply shake his head and quietly say "No." He did want to compound possible jail time by selling fireworks to minors nor be responsible for them if something happened.

Mark and I would take packages of firecrackers from time to time, using them as adolescent currency towards being popular with others my age. It worked, for a time, until that first week in July had passed, and we were merely the Lory family once more, with all pieces accounted for.