In God we trust_ all others pay cash - Jean Shepherd [54]
Then it happened. There are events which lend themselves readily to the descriptive phrase; the words of pen or tongue, and then there are things which happen that cannot be adequately communicated. The incident of Kissel’s Dago Bomb must be classified as one of the truly indescribable. Suffice it to say that the bomb was well made and of an order of efficiency that fireworks manufacturers rarely achieve. With a definite clipped, stinging report the aerial bomb, lying horizontally on its side, propelled its deadly cartridge of dynamite out along the earth, skipping, humming, singing in an instantaneous trajectory that struck terror into the very marrow of the bones of those fortunate enough to be on the scene. This Dago Bomb was obviously designed to send its aerial charge at least 500 feet into the air. For an instant or so we were not aware of what sort of aerial charge it was prepared to deliver. We soon found out.
The cartridge, which seemed abnormally large as it emerged from the black maw of Kissel’s Folly, skimmed over the sidewalk, parting the spectators like the Red Sea. Over the lawn and the driveway, and with a sharp, audible “click” and whistling sizzle, under Kissel’s front porch. And for a long, pendulous moment the universe stood still. Fingernails clawed the earth, heads burrowed into hedges.
KAA-ROOOM!
The first thunderous explosion rocked the neighborhood. The slats of Kissel’s porch bellowed outward; the floor tilted instantly downward. A great yellow, swirling cloud of dust rose over the lilac bushes. A second or two passed as an eternity, and then another, and louder, detonation thundered over the landscape:
KA-KAA-BAA-ROOOM!
This time it caved in the rose trellis of the house next door to Kissel’s. The crowd heaved and dug deeper as two more giant explosions—KAA-RAAA-BOOM! BOOM!—sounded almost as one, these two under Mr. Strickland’s Pontiac.
A heavy cloud of dust swirled for a moment and all was still, except for the pattering of the quiet raindrops.
Kissel slowly pulled himself to his knees and made his statement, which is even today part of that great legend.
“My God, what a doozy!”
Kissel had said it for all of us. As the crowd slowly got to its feet amid the quiet tinkling of glass and the heavy, sensual smell of oxidized dynamite, they were aware that they had been witness to History.
I idly stirred my third Bloody Charlie as off in the middle distance another muffled blast bloomphed and jiggled the bottles behind the bar. Kissel faded back into his landscape and I pensively chewed a cashew nut as I vainly struggled to return to the Here and Now. After all, fireworks, we all know, are dangerous and childish playthings that have no place in the hard-hitting, On-The-Go Male’s life of today. A passing cab sent a reflected shaft of light across the mirror behind the bar. It broke into a thousand colors amid the bottles, and subtly I was reminded of yet another historic moment in the annals of the Fourth of July celebrations. Those colored lights reminded me irresistibly of my father and the time the Roman Candle struck back.
The Roman Candle is a truly noble and inspired piece of the pyrotechnician’s art, being a long slender wand that spews forth colored, flaming balls that arch high into the midnight sky, one after the other, with magnificent effect. It is held in the hand, and is one of the few pieces of fireworks that bring out talent and skill on the part of the operator. The Roman Candle is graded according to the number of fireballs it can discharge, ranging from eight to, in some cases, as high as two dozen, but these are very rare and expensive. There are few experiences that rival for sheer ecstatic pleasure and total, unadulterated joy the feel of a Roman Candle in full bloom, sending its fireballs up into the dark heavens with that distinctive—Plock—ssssssss—Plock—ssssssssPlock sound, and the slight but sensual recoil as each colored light arches heavenward. My father was unquestionably one of the great Roman Candle men