SEVENTEEN
We had decided not to go back over to the Maherrin’s to hang out with Steve and Cory and our new older friend, Mark, after dinner. Actually, Jason decided for the both of us. Instead we opted to hang out with the family, have a little dinner and then watch some TV.
It was spaghetti night at our house. Now, our mom was an excellent cook, but I swear, the woman had no right in tampering with this Italian meal. Her recipe consisted of half a jar of tomato sauce over cooked noodles. That was it. Nothing else.
But we ate it anyway and we always thanked her every time she made it.
During supper, the topic of the Fourth of July came up. It was now only three days away.
“Dad? Are we going to grandma and grandpa’s for the Fourth again?” I asked my father as he washed down some noodles with milk.
Our grandparents lived in Downey, a forty-five minute drive from Corona, west down the 91 freeway. It was a yearly tradition to go there every Independence Day.
Dad, after slurping up another forkful of his dinner, said, “I don’t know. Is that what you want to do?”
Huh? This was somewhat odd that he’d ask me this. I had never been the deciding factor on anything before. Was he really giving me a choice as to where we should go for the holiday?
I looked at my dad for a second, then over at Jason, whose fork had frozen halfway to his mouth, a furrowed brow of concern on his young face, and then looked back at dad. I just shrugged and waited to see what he would say.
Addressing both Jason and me, he said, "Would you boys rather stick around here and hang out with your friends?”
“Yeah,” we said almost too quickly.
Jason tried to cover it up with, “That is… if… you know… you don’t want to sit through traffic again going to grandpa’s. It’s okay with us. Right, Ricky?”
I nodded my head in agreement to show that it was hunky-dory that we stick around the neighborhood.
Dad then turned to Susan and even asked her approval of the situation. “How ‘bout you, Scooter? That okay if we stay home for the Fourth?”
She nodded, thumb stuck in her pie hole.
“Well, Juanita,” dad said, “you want to tell them about the surprise? Or should we make them wait until Friday?”
After dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, mom raised her eyebrows as if concerned, sighed, and said, “I don’t know, Gary. Some of the kids in the neighborhood might not know about the fireworks show- oops.” She covered her mouth in a conspiring gesture. “I think I might have said too much.” Her eyes darted back and forth to each of us in comical cartoon fashion.
Three sets of eyes lit up at the dinner table at that instance. And three children smiled.
A fireworks show?
What did that mean? And where was this so called fireworks show going to be held?
At the city park? At the high school? Of course, there was a show at the high school. They had one every year.
“What fireworks show?” Jason and I asked.
Our dad broke in to laughter at seeing our expressions and the way we had posed our question. A bit of noodle shot from his mouth and landed back on his plate.
When mom’s giggling had subsided some, she explained. “I spent most of the morning and some of the afternoon calling neighbors to see if they would be interested in staging a block party.”
A block party? On our street? Oh, this was too good to be true.
“Most of them thought it was a great idea,” mom went on, “although about half of the families will be out of town. But we should still have about forty or so people from Cottonwood attending. And if word gets around, the families from Aspen and Redwood are welcome as well.”
“Cool,” Jason exclaimed.
“That sounds like fun,” I added.
Our own block party.
Our father had bought our house when it was first built in 1973. And in the nine years that the tract had been there, this would be the first official neighborhood get-together on our street. It suddenly felt like Christmas Eve in July. Jason and I were busting. And by the way she was working her thumb over, Susan seemed quite pleased herself.
When he was done washing down another bite of his food with his milk, Jason asked, “How’s it going to work? I mean, where’s everyone going to sit? On their lawns or the sidewalks or something?”
Mom had another mouthful of pasta she was trying to get down, and when she finally swallowed, she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin again and placed it back on her lap. She said, “Well, I also called up city hall and talked to a few people. I was able to obtain a permit for fireworks as long as a certified firefighter was at the party at all times. And Andrew from up the street said that his family and he would be there. So we’ve got that covered.”
Andrew Moore and his family lived across the street and up three houses from us. His main source of income came from his trade in flooring; carpet, tile, and linoleum. He was also a certified volunteer firefighter.
“And,” she went on, “we’re going to put up two saw horses with flashing lights; one at the top of Cottonwood, and one down by Aspen. That way no one can drive in or out and everyone’s safe to walk anywhere they please. The food and drinks and the fireworks show will all be done right out front of our house in the cul-de-sac.”
“Man, that’s gong to be great,” Jason said with spaghetti sauce dribbling down his chin.
“Oh, I can’t wait. Are we going to get sparklers?” I asked.
“Sure. I guess so. We can get some sparklers,” dad answered. “But the only thing is, we can’t have any of the big fireworks.” He looked a bit disappointed at this revelation.
“No big ones?” Jason said. “What do you mean?”
As dad shoveled the last of his noodles and sauce into his mouth, mom answered, “Well, it’s illegal to shoot the big ones off; the kind that go into the sky. We can only light ones that stay on or near the ground.”
When Jason finished with his last bite of food, he said, “But they shoot those ones off over at the high school.”
“Yeah,” dad explained after wiping his mouth and throwing the wadded up napkin onto his plate, “but there aren’t any houses around the school. The city’s just afraid that one might fall back down on a house and catch it on fire.”
“Oh.”
It didn’t matter. No big deal. Even if we only had the kind that stayed on the ground, it would still be cool. The thought of running up and down the street with a sparkler twirling in each hand gave me butterflies. It would be a great party. I just knew it. All thanks to our parents.
Three days is an eternity for a kid to wait, but it would pass. And the Fourth would be here soon enough.
As mom put away the dishes after dinner, dad retired to his den to grade school papers. Jason, Susan and I went into the living room to watch an episode of Three’s Company but most of the show was lost on me, as I was busy imagining what our block party would be like.