i have noticed that i do a lot of remniscing about my father, so here’s one about my mom.
when i was young, oh i’d say, between the ages of 6 and 9, my mom had the job of taking me and my age-appropriate sibling(s) to the fireworks every fourth of july. there was a ritual to, most definitely.
we would first pop popcorn and dump it in a brown grocery bag, salt and butter it up nice and good. then roll up the top so it stayed fresh on the way into town. after the popcorn, we would grab some bottles of pepsi out of the fridge (yes, bottles). my mom and liz and i would get into the car, which was equipped with a blanket, and drive to austin’s kmart parking lot, where everyone watched the fireworks.
after spreading the blanket on the hood of the car, my mom would take the bottles and open them by hitting them on the hubcaps. then we’d grab our pop, hop on the car, and dig our hands into the greasy popcorn, waiting for the first firework to boom up in the air.
after the first boom, liz held her hands over her ears, and even though i wanted to, i didn’t, to show i wasn’t a weenie. we watched in awe of the fireworks, staying until the very end.
then we would pack up our bottles, as they would be returned to the grocery store, our greasy bag of leftover popcorn, and swipe the blanket off the hood, satisfied until the next year, when maybe liz wouldn’t hold her hands over her ears.