I have survived another Fourth of July. I didn’t catch on fire.
Junior didn’t catch on fire. The house didn’t catch on fire. Even
Harry survived flame-free and he was the official lighter of our
fireworks.
I have survived another Fourth of July. I didn’t catch on fire. Junior didn’t catch on fire. The house didn’t catch on fire. Even Harry survived flame-free and he was the official lighter of our fireworks.
I don’t know what it is about testosterone and fireworks – but it’s never seemed like a good combination to me. Fireworks tend to bring out the arsonist in men. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love fireworks. I just love them best from a safe distance, armed with a bucket of water and a tube of burn balm.
But the fire obsession starts young in males. Junior, for example, has always loved Independence Day – and it’s not about the hot dogs. My son is obsessed with fire. His lizard is named Fire Flame. He even named the pool sweep Fire Ball. And if a shirt has fire flaming out of a FOX logo or a basketball, Junior will wear it until it falls apart.
He’s a pyromaniac in the making.
That’s very scary to me. I have very bad fire mojo. I refused to get a gas stove for years because the first time I used one I caught my bangs on fire. Do you know how quickly bangs smothered in Aquanet can flame up? I’m lucky I wasn’t scarred.
And let’s not even get into the fact that grease and fire don’t mix. I’ve burnt down so many kitchens in my lifetime that I’m more experienced than the fire department at extinguishing flames.
I’m not even safe at gas stations. I blew one up. Truthfully, it wasn’t my fault. I started the gas pumping and went back into the truck to keep warm. The guy working at the station came out, took my money, and never took the pump doo-hickey out of my truck. So when I pulled out, I pulled the entire gas thing out.
That caused a fire. And an explosion. Nobody was hurt – but I still get the shakes when the gas gauge drops below a quarter tank.
So Independence Day gives me a definite case of the willies. There are fireworks. And there are men and boys, puffed up with testosterone, running around with sparklers and snakes and all kinds of flammable stuff.
And it doesn’t end once the clock strikes midnight on July 4th.
No, on July 5th, I pulled into my parents’ garage and smelled something burning. That caused a bit of panic. Turns out my nephew, 15 and full of raging testosterone, had taken some leftover fireworks, attached them to his skateboard and then lit them. And that’s not even the stupid part. For the finale, he dumped the still-smoldering fireworks into a garbage can full of paper.
And still, that’s not the stupid part.
After that, my nephew walked into the garage and denied smelling smoke or even seeing the flames that were by then leaping out of the garbage can. And still, that’s not the stupid part. After Harry put out the fire, my nephew, not satisfied with the near destruction of his grandparents’ home, went to the guest room and tried to set his friend’s socks on fire using something called a match bomb. And then he denied it when my Dad asked him about it.
I’m pretty sure that was the stupid part.
And I’m pretty sure that someday, when Junior is older, I’ll need to keep the bucket of water and tube of burn balm with me at all times. Because he was really fascinated with the idea of setting his socks on fire.
Testosterone and fire. They just don’t mix.
