No one ever reads the terms and conditions when you download a piece of software from the Internet. You check the little box without a second thought, not realizing that you may have just signed away your birthright, your home and your first born child. Why would we read it? This would take way too much time and there are far too many other things to worry about. Besides, you really want to play the new version of Candy Bubble Pop Crush Cars Cart and have little time for such trivialities.
Fireworks operate under a similar mental principle. If we ever read the government required fireworks warning printed on each gun powder-packed cardboard tube we might just leave them on the side of the road as we headed home from the reservation. But no one ever reads them. We don’t care about such things as lost fingers, blindness and burns. These are all part of the enjoyment of the Fourth of July, and no matter how many stories we read of people dying from fireworks or cities going up in flames because of misuse of explosives, we never think it will happen to us… until it does.
When we were first married we always longed to be invited to the Knecht 4th of July celebration. In the weeks leading up to the first week of July, Kelly and I would wonder if this was the year when we would get an invite. Karen and Roy Knecht, were good friends, who lived in Princeton, Idaho, on the top of a hill, just Northeast of Potlatch. The views is spectacular as is the feast, and the people are second to none. BUT, we had never been invited. We had hinted and asked and joked about going, but for years it had never resulted in an invitation. The Knecht’s were a close clan and since “O’Bryan” isn’t even close to a Germanic name we apparently weren’t acceptable enough to be invited.
We waited for years, and then, out of the blue, it happened. I guess we had begged so often we had worn them down and one morning, Karen asked Kelly if we wanted to come, and she quickly accepted. We were almost giddy as we prepared for the day. Kelly made my mom’s famous potato salad and I bought a few adult beverages to add to the tub of ice. On the fateful day we loaded the kids in the suburban and made the 30 minute trek to their house. The parking area was already full and as we made our way to the back of their house we could hear laughter and screaming of kids as they played whatever game they were playing. Our kids quickly joined in.
It was a beautiful blue-sky day and the rolling hills of the Palouse were lit with the evening sun. If you’ve only seen the Palouse in pictures, you really need to visit when the wheat is up and the sun is setting over the hills. It is one of the most unique and picturesque landscapes in the entire world. A picture will never do it justice, but I have a degree in photojournalism, so I take a lot of pictures in hopes of doing it justice. Continued below…
I rolled a few dozen pictures through my digital camera then stopped and took in the moment, enjoying the beauty. It was like a little slice of what heaven must be like. Then I saw them and the breath caught in my throat. A half dozen boxes filled with fireworks of every kind, piled high on a 4×4 foot sheet of plywood in the middle of the field. I slowly walked towards them and knelt down to look at the artillery. I was enthralled by explosives as a kid, as are most kids, and while the thrill had waned over the years (I could never see spending hundreds of dollars on something that exploded into thin air, when the kids needed to eat) they still held an alure, and especially so now that I knew how to take cool pictures of them. Ignoring the warnings I read the names of some of the bigger ones. “Big Bomber” “Thunder Mountain” and “Blaster!” It looked like it was going to be an exciting evening.
These were definitely not the “safe and sane” fireworks that anyone can buy from a stand in the city, but most of us don’t want safe and sane on the 4th of July. Our founding father’s weren’t’ safe and sane. They were unsafe and completely out of their minds, but here we are 250 years later and what they felt at the time matters little: all that matters is the result. Because of this we want insane and unsafe fireworks on the 4th. Safe and sane are for the little kids who like to throw pop-it’s at their siblings and hold sparklers out at arm’s length and try to write their names in the air. We want explosions that remind us of our independence from the people who talk funny and live across the Atlantic.
After we had stuffed ourselves with three different kinds of hamburgers and two different kinds of hotdogs and eaten our fill of watermelon and potato salad, we settled our backsides into chairs and watched the kids set up for the fireworks show. I had already set up a time lapse camera and one to take long exposures, but I held my best camera in my hands, ready to get that one picture, THE picture that would epitomize our first time at the Knecht 4th of July celebration. I wanted to remember this moment forever.
The three Knecht boys ran the fireworks show and they kept us mildly entertained at first, with the safe and sane ones, that some of the younger kids had brought. Tiny showers of sparks shot out of cones and black snakes appears as if by magic from the dark cubes of goo.
But then all heck seemed to break loose as the boys began shooting Roman Candles at each other. Roman Candles, if you aren’t familiar with them, are tubes that launch balls of fire out the end. The warnings written on the sides of Roman Candles firmly state that they are to be stuck in the ground and never, ever held in the hand when lit. From day one, they have always been held in the hand when lit and from day two they have always been used to shoot at your unsuspecting siblings.
Mother’s grabbed their little ones and held them on their laps far from the danger. The older kids, not wanting to miss out on the fun of being burned or blinded, grabbed Roman Candles and began launching them in every direction. Sparks and flames rained down on the land. I was sure the entire Palouse would soon be on fire, but it was spectacular as were the pictures.
As all this was going on, one of the boys broke away from the chaos and began lighting off the very unsafe and super insane fireworks. One of the mega bomb, pieces of artillery exploded into a million sparkles of light only a few feet off the ground and everyone screamed. Undeterred, more were lit and everyone ooohed and aaahed as one after another colorful explosion lit the evening sky. I looked over the Palouse hills and similar shows were going on everywhere around us.
I ran to the plywood, rolling onto my back as I reach it. I fired off dozens of pictures as I did. Little did I know that these few pictures might have been the last ones I would ever take. I heard the sizzle of multiple fireworks taking off and saw the tracers as they shot into the air. The explosion was spectacular and that’s when I heard the screaming! I held the camera to my eye, ignoring the commotion, not knowing that I was moments away from becoming a statistic.
Someone yelled “Run!” but I had no idea they were talking to me so I kept taking pictures. When someone pulled on my shirt and screamed run into my ear I figured something was wrong (I’m a slow learner). Thankfully, one of the boys grabbed my shirt and dragged me to my feet, pushing me away from the platform as he did. I freaked out and blindly ran in the direction I had been pushed. I heard the explosion before I saw the flames as a box full of fireworks ignited. A spark had landed in one of the boxes, setting it, and all the other fireworks ablaze. The chain reaction of fire sent a barrage of sparks and flames in all directions. No one was safe and everyone was insane as they ran for whatever cover they could find.
I sprinted right through a hail of artillery and fire. Hacksaw Ridge flashed through my mind – the movie – not the actual battle and when I had sprinted 50 feet from the explosions I stopped, dropped and rolled. I’m not sure why I did, but all that training in grade school was so firmly pounded into my little skull of mush that I instinctively knew what do. Was I on fire? No. Was I hurt? No. But as my wife came running up to me I kept rolling and rolling in the dirt, sure that I was about to burst into flames.
“Stop it! You’re going to be covered in ticks! You need to stop now!”
I slowly rolled to my back and carefully opened one eye to see who was talking.
“But, I’m on fire.” I responded quietly, when I saw it was the wife of my youth.
“Yeah, not so much.” She replied. She tossed a glass of water into my face. “Just in case.” She said, smiling. Oh, and you are not getting into the car until you strip and check for ticks. Understood.” I nodded and she turned and headed back to the party.
I made sure she was gone and then I rolled a few more times for good measure and sat up. I moved my limbs and flexed my neck to see if it was still attached. I checked for burn marks, but everything was intact… even my eyebrows. I had escaped sure death and dismemberment.
It was a good thing that it was dark so no one saw me crying, but as I looked through the smokey gloom I could see through my tears that every guy who had almost been killed by the explosion was slowly getting to his feet. Ground zero looked like the scorched earth of an apocalypse. The plywood was incinerated, and the grass all around it had been charred to dirt. We all stared at the mess then our eyes met. We had survived. Not one of our men had been lost. We began laughing nervously then let out a collective war whoop! Although we hadn’t seen it, we were sure this was the best fireworks display ever. The wives and moms just ignored us and kept talking, but we didn’t care. We had been through hell and back together and somehow our lives had changed forever. We were bonded by fire and would be friends forever.
And I’ve got the pictures to prove it.
Tie Flying 