In a message dated 7/2/99 9:11:53 AM Eastern Daylight Time, [log in to unmask]
writes:

> Used to be that you really had to be creative to entertain yourself with
> graphic, violent carnage--now they do it all for you with video games.
> Being a kid just isn't like it used to be, eh?

Shucks, gunpowder? You Southern boys got it good. Our greatest violence
consisted of throwing rocks. A favorite sport was putting a stick in the
creak and pretending it was a boat. As it floated downstream we would hammer
it with rocks. He/she who struck the blow that broke the stick, or sunk it,
won. Technique included getting the opponent, who was usually on the opposite
shore, wet. If you happened to miss, or hit as the fleshy case may be, then
rocks would fly all over. At such times an agility that allowed running over
round boulders came in handy. I have a fond memory, no joke, of being hit in
the head on three separate occasions. They were milestones in my childhood. I
think my last big rock fight was when delivering newspapers and I was in the
rival (rural) gangs territory. Being in their zone on a mission of commerce
meant nothing. The fact that I could read the newspaper I was delivering
probably did not help my case. I'm reminded of Orwell and the Middle East in
one flash, they meant business with their rock throwing and would easily have
killed me out of a burst of pre-teen ennui. In that case my agility in riding
a bycycle off the side of a large mound of dirt, twice the size of a house,
assisted my escape. In later years I assume the members of this gang had sex
early, at least by my experience, and died already. If not dead they sell
used cars.

Hey, have a blast on the 4th!

"In the small barn next to the woodpile at the backside of their lot,
surrounded by forsythia and lilac, Beemer keeps an arsenal of flower pots,
cakes, spinners, crackers, whistles, break mines, mortar shells, gerbs,
rockets, starburst wheels, loud maroons, and roman candles. A fireworks
assortment ranging from Class 4 Explosive to Class 1 suitable for interior
havoc, the collection of a black-market dealer who devotedly subsidizes his
wife's forgetful habits.

Yearly on the fourth, or any excuse of a halfway decent Holiday, the sky of
Berosus Bay is alit with the explosion of brilliant combustibles. And at such
times Beemer can be witnessed running around his back yard having a Grand Old
Time waving a lit potfire. His daughter Betty, a pretty good looker for a
skinny scamp, under orders, waves a garden hose to spray over the moss-grown
shake shingles of the small barn.

Me and the guests wander over from the hamburger and chicken barbecue across
the street, huddle around a rickety picnic table and scaffolding planks set
on cement blocks. Toward sunset the blue darkened sky is suddenly shocked
with bursts of red spray, yellow streak and loud titanium bang of shellburst
mixed with a composting pungency of oak leaves, the breath of Jack Daniel's
imbibed straight, and putrescent seafood. The Radio Shack 240-channel scanner
cracking out police and fire calls as the family and friends staggers around
the yard tripping over lawn chairs, between the loud aerial outbursts. And a
flock of screaming Guinea hens is rousted from their oak tree where they been
roosting.

"Run for cover. Run for cover," maddeningly a fully tuned-up Jade jumps up to
scream out for everyone to run for cover. She jerks her forearm in space
extended with a lit Marlboro as a patrolling black helicopter passes off
toward the county park The guests and family excited to shout out, "Hurray,
hurray!" They run around the small plot with as much gush, spray, and
brilliance as the fire-marked heavens. Some of them head for the marshland to
rub their bare legs against poison ivy, others run across the street to grab
another sesame seed bun. One teen jumps into his Camray and races down the
road with tires spinning gravel while his girlfriend trots after waving her
vinyl purse. Then returns around the northern corner of the block. A few
children duck under the porch. Somebody we don't even know drops an empty
Blue Goose wine bottle. Devries, Jade's father, confused about thinking he
hears the voice of his deceased wife Hedy stops eating sesame and scallion
tofu and heads for the woodpile. There is a glowing ember sighted in the
Catalpa and from the street darkness passing the roach to her boyfriend,
Betty dances over with the hose while Beemer runs into the barn to check on a
second kegger."

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