I am, by nature, a cautious person.
I wear my seat belt, even when I move cars around in the driveway. I don't eat gas station sushi. The idea of skydiving makes as much sense to me as jumping out of an airplane. Wait ... never mind.
None of that at all explains why every Fourth of July, I'm the one holding the lighter. Yep, in my family, heck, in my part of the neighborhood, I'm the Fire Bringer. Or at least as much of a Fire Bringer as a guy lighting sparklers and Ladybugs can be.
Yeah, put like that, it doesn't sound nearly as impressive, does it?
Now before you surmise my role in this whole Independence Day pyrotechnic thing is a result of some careful assessment of who would handle the job with the greatest degree of regard for safe conduct, I just want to make clear ... nah. We don't think that sort of thing through all that well around here.
More than likely, when the kids got old enough we could actually have fireworks and not be accused of child endangerment, I was just the only one who knew where a functioning lighter was, and it kind of went from there. We're not big on letting actual skill get in the way of habit. Witness the fact I also decorate our family Christmas tree.
However, it is important to point out there's not much that happens during Christmas Tree decorating that would leave me with nicknames such as "Old Eight Fingers" or "One Eye."
Which brings me back to my designated role as the official lighter of fireworks. In other words, I'm the person directly responsible for piling up paper and gunpowder for which I laid out about as much as a car payment and setting it ablaze. Yes, as a celebration of our nation's independence, I literally burn up money.
Now, in and of itself, it's not that hard to be successful with fireworks. The deal is, once you light that fuse, things pretty much take care of themselves. Since we have very little idea what the rockets and mortars and boxed thingies for which we plunked down a Mayflower-size chunk of change actually do, chances are I'm going to be responsible for wonder and amazement. That's true even if it's just the Lovely Mrs. Smith being amazed I haven't blown off a finger.
However, as our Independence Day celebrations have grown from smaller, highly combustible (and that doesn't even factor in the fireworks) family gatherings to semi-block parties, my role as Amazer-In-Chief has grown, perhaps far beyond my capabilities.
That, dear friends, is where the stupid comes in.
Only one thing is dumber than a grown man who should know better coaxing a lighter into operating so he can set off the fuse on a "Molten Volcano Of Sound and Thunder" (at least I think that's what the Chinese saying on the box was supposed to translate to. My own belief is it says, "You paid $50 for this and you're about to blow it up. You people are morons."), and then scurrying away like a frightened bunny when it does light,.
It's the idea that what he's actually done is try to light the four fuses he semi-twisted together for the four mortars in four different tubes, one of which is about to fall over and let off a charge that, instead of bursting in a colorful display of patriotism and pride, is going to incinerate a Ford F-150.
Hey, at least someone bought American.
Of course, the worst thing is, as the Lovely Mrs. Smith is quick to tell anyone who will stand still long enough, any dumb thing I may have done or will do with fireworks on the Fourth of July pales in comparison to the time I set a portion of our fence and backyard on fire while trying to celebrate New Year's.
I mean, how was I to know that spinning wheel of firecrackers would produce sparks and flames that could set dry grass and a wooden fence on fire? OK, aside from the label that said, "Warning -- this firework could produce sparks and flames that could start a fire, particularly if you nail it to something wooden." Or something like that.
So in spite of that, every year our Fourth of July fireworks celebration is a paraphrase of the saying that "the weakest link controls the chain." Or, in our case, the lighter. Which brings another paraphrase to mind.
Who is the bigger fool: the fool or the person who lets him near the fuse? I rest my case.
GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.
Commentary on 07/10/2014