76 lines
3.7 KiB
Plaintext
76 lines
3.7 KiB
Plaintext
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ANOTHER FOURTH OF JULY
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by Jeff Epstein
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Dad is staining the redwood picnic table again, and that can only mean
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one thing. It's almost the Fourth of July.
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You have to understand that the Fourth of July is something of a ritual
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in my family. It used to be fun, and simple, when I was real little. But Dad
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keeps making it bigger and bigger every year. Maybe what happened last year
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will calm him down this time.
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You see, I had chemistry for seventh grade two years ago, and I got
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hooked. So Mom and Dad had bought me a chemistry set for my birthday. But
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I think they regretted it almost every moment since.
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While my Mom was frantically making sure the salads were perfect so
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Mrs. Panonewski wouldn't complain, and my Dad was planning his barbecue
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strategy for 15 people, I was in the kitchen sink mixing beakers of fluid
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on the stove.
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That in itself was an accomplishment, since I had to convince them I
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was responsible enough to handle it. And, I guess, they figured I would
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stay out of the way.
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I really didn't know I was making a combustible compound. I swear I
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didn't. All I know is that as soon as the guests started to arrive, this
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beaker I set on the stove suddenly turned brown and began shaking and
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jiggling, and then, KA-BOOM. Nobody got hurt, but it left a real mess.
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There were these little brown flakes drifting down from the ceiling all
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over the potato salad, and Mom's face turned completely red.
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Mom opened the windows to let the stench out, but by that time Dad had
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poured so much lighter fluid on the charcoal that there was this huge smelly
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cloud of gray smoke that came wafting in. It smelled like a gas station.
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Then he put the steaks on. He wouldn't leave them alone. He never does.
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He keeps prodding them and stabbing them. Dad always tells us how much he
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learned in the Marines, and this is one of his skills. "When I was in the
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Marines, you learn how to survive. A real man has to know how to cook real
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meat!" Then he would grunt and stab the steaks again.
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The guests moved onto the patio and tried not to cough too much. From
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across the street, that nearsighted Mrs. Higginbottom saw the smoke,
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especially when Dad - intending to make the steaks cook faster - squirted
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more lighter fluid onto the briquets under the steaks. Well, when she saw
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the flame shoot up, she figured there was a fire and she called the fire
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department.
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Dad was furious because the steaks were ruined--they just sat there on
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the grill burning in flame. Then the fire department showed up. We don't
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have too many fires in our little town and I guess they got excited.
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Somebody from the fire department turned on a hose and completely doused
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the grill and Dad behind it.
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Dad started cursing, which upset Mrs. Panonewski so much that she
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slapped him. Mom started crying. I ran under the porch and hid and watched.
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The firemen lost control of the hose for a moment and the water sprayed all
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over the place, and all the guests got wet. The church women started
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screaming, and the husband of one of them got so angry he let out a string
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of bad words, too. Mrs. Panonewski slapped him. Then Mr. Panonewski got
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angry at his wife for slapping people, so he got slapped, too. Then they
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left.
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Mom only said one thing after all the guests left. She glared at Dad
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and said, "I am never, never, going to do this again!!"
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So I think whatever we do this Fourth of July will be a little quieter.
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But it won't be as funny.
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____________________________________________________________________________
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Copyright 1990 by Jeff Epstein
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