Guy Fawke’s Night
When I was a boy we were not allowed to set off fireworks at home. Well, we were up until I managed to get a little burn on my foot from an out of control roman candle when I was about five or so. Then it was pretty much over for us.
One year though, through hours of wheedling and complaining, we managed to convince my mother to get us some fireworks for Guy Fawke’s night. Since we had been denied for so long the anticipation was palpable. Little did we know.
When the big night came my sister and I were escorted to the back yard and forced to don the appropriate protective clothing. Army Surplus jacket. Hat. Gloves. Gumboots. Swimming goggles. Then we were each handed a sparkler which we were instructed to hold at arms length. Once the sparkler was lit we attempted to wave them around — you know, write our names in the air, that sort of thing. Except that as soon as we did that our mother started yelling at us and telling us not to move them around. So we stood motionless beside the garden shed, dressed as though we were ready for a mustard gas attack, and waited for our sparklers to burn out. There were about a dozen of them in the packet.
When we got to the two or three skyrockets and roman candles we had, we were kept well back from the action. I was given the garden hose, just in case things “got out of control”.
The last thing to come out of the box was a strip of Po-Ha’s (little red firecrackers) which we decided to set off all at once, so as not to prolong the ordeal. As they bounced around the lawn our mother started to become concerned that they would get into the shrubbery. She ran over and tried to prevent them getting amongst the bushes using a garden rake. But she couldn’t keep them under control and ordered my sister to turn on the water so that I could extinguish them. At this point I realized that an opportunity had presented itself to me.
I hosed my mother down. I chased her around the lawn with the water. She was soaked. It was worth it.