COMMENTARY: Remembrance of Things Past and Present

Thursday, January 2, 2014

“Oh that was the night I painted the sky.”

— James Buffett

My cousin Rog had a detailed plan for our New Year’s Eve celebration. It would involve split-second timing but as they say, no risk, no reward.

I was 9 years old and my family was staying for the holidays at my grandparents’ house in St. Petersburg, Fla. Rog lived less than a mile away and at age 16 had already become quite the explosives expert.

He was to be in charge of the light show scheduled to go off on New Year’s Eve precisely at 9 p.m.

His plan was devilishly clever.

There was a fireworks ban at St. Pete beach, which was to be the launching point for our private light show. However, over at the City Pier, there was to be a legal fireworks celebration at that very time.

By planning our show for the exact same time, Rog reasoned, we would “blend in” with those fireworks and thus be free of any potential arrest by the St. Petersburg fireworks patrol, which to my 9-year-old mind was certainly lurking everywhere.

Rog had made a summer run up to South Carolina to stock up on his munitions, which included sky rockets he whispered to me were “illegal” because of their firepower but he had been able to purchase them under the table, so to speak.

My heart raced with excitement at the pending evening’s light show.

Surprisingly, my father, he of conservative background and demeanor, placidly went along with the whole illicit program Rog had planned for us. Normally, all of us would be in bed asleep at midnight so maybe, I reasoned, he liked fireworks as much as I did.

So promptly at 8:30 New Year’s Eve night, all of us caravanned out to the beach where Rog already had his launch site picked out.

The beach there was empty except for the lights of several beach houses scattered along the shore. Rog arranged his rockets in a semi-circle near the surf line as our entire family settled into our folding beach chairs. Rog waited patiently with my grandfather’s cigarette lighter, looking over toward St. Pete pier for those fireworks to commence.

As we all saw the first explosion in the distance, Rog lit the first rocket. It soared beautifully up into the sky and then blossomed into a burst of greens and reds. It was spectacular, and the ones that followed all seemed more beautiful than the rest.

But then came what in family history we came to refer as “the accident.”

Rog had saved his big rocket for the end of the show. During the time he had set it up in the sand, the weight of the rocket had made it shift slightly. When he lit the fuse, it unfortunately arced directly into the porch of the beach house about 100 yards away from us.

The porch area exploded in a light show of Kubrickian dazzle.

Within seconds, the owner came running out yelling words that my young mind had to that point never come into contact with, yet even I intuitively understood their severity. Like a flock a chickens scattering on the approach of a hound dog, all of us literally flew to our cars.

The whole way back to the house I craned my neck looking to see if the police were on our tails. Looking in the car mirror, I could see the broad smile on the face of my father.

My cousin Rog died when he was 35, and both my father and mother have passed on, but those memories of the night Rog painted the sky stay vivid in my mind where they have joined countless other New Year recollections.

For many the start of a New Year can involve looking backward, but for me, the prospect of a New Year remains tremendously exciting.

Proust wrote of how the smell of something cooking could jar a long ago memory, but we can use those thoughts to enrich our future life. Memory is not just for thinking, but also to learn how to move forward in our future with a renewed purpose and intent.

Townes Van Zandt once wrote that “to live is to fly, so spread your wings.” So as we start 2014, dear reader, my wish for you is if you are still sitting on the beach, get up and start to soar.

I know Rog would approve.

Happy New Year.

SEY YOUNG IS A LOCAL BUSINESSMAN, HUSBAND, FATHER AND LONGTIME RESIDENT OF BENTONVILLE.