Fireworks Day

Gas stations smelled terrible. Maybe it was just me, or maybe it was just the select few gas stations that I frequented. Either way, I felt justified in how much I hated the smell. Every time I stepped near one, I was rather criminally assaulted by the pungent odor of petrol mixed in with the two-month-old eggs in the broken refrigerators that lived in the back of the store. They were, by no means, pleasant visits on my part. Unfortunately, I was on a mission.

My dear aunt, one Sally Ellis, had tasked me with running out and returning with, of all things, fireworks. I'd suggested sparklers instead, since actual fireworks seemed hazardous. Maybe I could grab those little smoker things that I didn't actually remember the name of, the little tin pouches with wicks in the ends that took a moment before doing anything once lit, and erupted anticlimactically with an ungodly amount of fluffy, grey smoke. The little smoker things. Aunt Sally had, as always, insisted upon real fireworks.

I was no stranger to my family's yearly ceremony of standing in the backyard and lighting festive, probably pirated, little firecrackers. When I was a child, I thought it was fun. Anybody would--they're firecrackers, for Heaven's sake--but as I grew up, I started to poke holes in the little holiday we seemed to have created entirely on our own.

The date shifted around. The first time I noticed this detail, I didn't point it out. My earliest memory of "Fireworks Day" had happened on a Thursday in mid-October. The second had also been in October, but closer to the beginning of the month, and on a Friday. Its only consistency at first, date-wise, was that it occurred during the tenth month of the year. However, once I insisted to my aunt and uncle that holidays had to be mark-able on a calendar, and predictable, they admitted it was really meant to be on the second Wednesday of October each year. It only moved so much because they were so busy. They promised they'd try to be more faithful to the spirit of holidays in the future, though, and clear the day properly, ages in advance.

Ironically enough, until that day, I'd never once experienced a Fireworks Day on a Wednesday, and I knew it because I kept track. I digress.

Secondly, and more importantly, nobody knew what Fireworks Day was meant to celebrate. Aunt Sally first told me the story:

Once upon a time, in the impossible city of wonders that used to stand right here where we lived, sprawling across endless expanses of sand and rocks and cactus, there was a mouse. The mouse was friends with everybody in the city. There wasn't a soul in the city who didn't know the mouse. It was particularly good friends with the queen of the city, and often visited the castle to see her (Now, keep in mind, the castle that used to exist would've crushed our house if it decided to reappear. It was long gone by the time my ancestors built my house there). The queen always gave the mouse abundant sweets and breads upon its visit. They were the finest confections in the whole city, made especially for the mouse.

One day, it was feeling more lonely than usual. The mouse hadn't spoken with anybody that day, and it was feeling down in the dumps. So it decided to go to visit the queen.

Every other visitation between the two had been thoroughly planned out. The meticulous details had always been plucked through, to the bone, long before they took place. After all, a queen had business. She could not always make time to meet with friends--not even friends as friendly as the mouse.

Today, that very mouse had simply been feeling lonely. There was not an ounce of warning. It should have been expected that nobody had prepared the usual feast for the mouse, but it had depended on its bond between itself and Her Majesty. Angered by the queen's foolishness and inhospitality, the indignant mouse dropped dead with shock. Not only had it come lonely, it had come hungry, and it could not stand another second thinking about the snack it was not eating. Thus, it died quite immediately, but not before uttering a powerful curse.

The city would be destroyed and the land inhospitable if the mouse's ghost did not receive proper welcome at its arrival. It swore terrible revenge on anybody who didn't greet it properly with festivities, and this time, it would be generous and plan ahead. On the second October Wednesday of each year, it would return to the castle. The fireworks were to pay it homage. If the party were to be forgotten, anybody living on that site would be forgotten too.

Upon hearing that story, I'd been much more adamant on getting the date right.

Recalling the story now, as I rifled anxiously through the flammable section at the convenience store, my nerves eased. It was an unbelievable tale, as impossible as the city itself. It was calming, after all--the party remained unforgotten, even if there was no curse.

I remembered then, too, that I knew another story tied to Fireworks Day.

Uncle Hally was a farmer. He'd shown me from a young age how to plant vegetables, tend to them in the summer, and harvest them in the fall. He usually picked the corn a week before Fireworks Day, and he had me help. It is worth noting that I did not like bugs at the time. I still hold them to a certain level of distaste, but not as much as I used to. Either way, I didn’t like bugs.

As the niece of a farmer, and a budding botanist myself, I had no business hating the harmless creatures as much as I did. Uncle Hally always reminded me that they were kind little friends who wanted nothing more than to help the plants grow, and maybe eat them a little, too. If we were nice to the bugs, they would be nice to us. So, although the sight of them made my skin crawl and my head pound, I did my best to avoid hurting them.

Now, my Uncle Hally took me out to the field one day, and he told me to begin harvesting. He had said he would help, too, but he had to leave me alone for a moment. It had something to do with Mother Nature and her call. I did as I was told and began to pick the corn from the tall, stiff stalks. I’d compiled quite the trove of corn in his leave. It wasn’t as if my task was difficult. I had to snap the ears from the stalks and stuff them into our big sack. Snap, stuff. Snap, stuff. Snap--

I had been much too absorbed in the work itself that I hadn’t noticed until it was too late, but the last ear of corn I’d gone for had had a little spider living on it, and I’d crushed it dead before I could stop myself. I dropped the ear, but it was too late for the little guy.

When my uncle returned, I felt an overwhelming sensation of guilt, and I admitted to my crime. I didn’t feel bad for the spider, but my uncle had always harbored a little fondness for the things, so I did tell him I’d killed it. He asked me if I would remember the spider, and I said yes. I would remember the spider, and I would remember killing it, because I knew I had done something wrong, even if it was by accident.

He went on to tell me that these accidents were normal, and everybody had committed accidents like it. He told me that I could dedicate Fireworks Day to that spider and use the party to honor its life lost. He said that even he had once taken the life of a little friend, and he’d begun Fireworks Day as a celebration to commemorate his friend’s death.

He was probably talking about a dog.

I really got to thinking about the tradition now. I’d never quite understood it before, but it was a distraction from my current surroundings while I picked out suitable fireworks for the occasion. I’d never get to the bottom of its true meaning, I supposed, though it didn’t hurt to laugh at the crazy origin stories we had invented. After all, some of them were pretty wacky. My grandmother said that the bright lights and loud thunder they gave off was a warning to evil spirits, a sort of bluff in case they thought they might try to afflict us with misfortune and plight. My grandfather claimed the fireworks were actually little fairies that couldn’t fly until they were set on fire.

I didn’t believe him.

My favorite story was the first one, about the mouse, since it was just so whimsical and sweet every time, though the one about my uncle was sweet in its own way.

I set the packages I’d decided upon at the counter, and the cashier tilted their head at me as they scanned them. “What’s the occasion?”

“Ahh, commemorating a death,” I said. “It’s an anniversary.”

They smiled. “They liked parties, then?”

Was I buying fireworks for the mouse or the spider? My answer depended on it, but I wasn't a quick enough thinker to decide on the spot. “I have no idea,” I admitted, returning the expression. 

“Well, alright. That’ll be twenty-five dollars straight.”