There Goes the Ashpit

The Fourth of July was a day the kids on our block always looked forward to.  They knew they could count on my Dad to provide us with a fireworks show in our very own backyard.  One year, we had the best (and last) show in our backyard.

In the early 1950's, there were no police patrolling the streets to catch and ticket fireworks "offenders"; no ads on TV (hardly any TV come to think of it), by well-intentioned fireman showing horribly maimed hands and faces of those who had been injured by fireworks.  Instead, there were fireworks stands all over the city-I think the one we went to was somewhere near Sloan's Lake Park in Denver or in its neighboring suburb of Edgewater.

My dad would take me to the stand where I would pick out "worms" (my favorites), sparklers and brightly colored cylinders promising marvelous explosions.  Then, we would go back home and have a family picnic in our backyard.  

We had old wooden picnic benches and a table covered with a new coat of green paint (it was my grandmother's ritual to paint the outdoor furniture green every other summer).    We would bring out an oilcloth tablecloth; old dishes and best of all, the summer metal glasses-they were ice cold to the touch and came in many colors-green, gold, blue, red, purple.  After a dinner of hamburgers cooked on the grill, home-made french fries, kool aid and lemonade in the metal glasses, and homemade applesauce for dessert, my dad would invite the kids next door to come over for fireworks.

First we started with the worms.  They were cylindrical tubes that you lit at one end-they burned and curled their way slowly along the sidewalk in our backyard, leaving marks that lasted for years.  Next, as it grew dark, Dad passed out the sparklers.  We kids twirled and circled in ecstasy as the sparks flew and made ephemeral designs in the air.  Then, the folding chairs were lined up; Dad warned us all to move back and he proceeded to his show-fireworks launched from our ashpit.

We oohed and aahed as each salvo went up in the air-colored sparks showered down on us, noise filled the air and the little kids clamped their hands over their ears.  

One year, having gone through the same routine, my dad reached his crescendo:  he set up a huge firecracker, lit it and backed off quickly.  Suddenly, a deafening kaboom filled the air, followed by dust and crashing.  The lit firecracker fell into the ashpit and in an instant, reduced it to a pile of rubble and bricks.  My grandmother cried, my grandfather vowed that never again would my dad bring fireworks home and the boys in the neighborhood laughed with surprise and delight.  From then on, we became spectators at the fireworks shows launched by professionals, but the year of the ashpit lives in my memory as the best 4th of July ever.

P.S.  For readers of this blog, do you know what an ashpit is? Those things have gone the way of firecrackers at home and kool aid in metal glasses.