Fiery Christmas tale

When we were kids, my youngest brother and two oldest nephews loved to shoot firecrackers at Christmas. Loud noises disturbed me and scared the family dog, so we hid in the closet until the chaos ceased.

After those dang boys finished blowing up every stick and tin can that could be found, I thought twirling a nice quiet sparkler would be fun. All was going well until the colorful beauty began spewing wild sparks. To avoid becoming a crispy critter, I chunked the hateful thing down, and of course, the grass immediately ignited.

Man, it was amazing, not to mention blazing!

No longer fearing for my life, but for my behind after Mama got a load of what I had just done, I ran to get the water hose. To my horror, it had been put away for winter and wasn’t in its usual spot. I filled a bucket with water, but the flames were out of control.

My frantic activity had finally jolted everyone from their tryptophan comas, and adults came pouring out of the house. Daddy led the pack, and the fire was beaten into submission. Much to my surprise, I was not spanked for burning up the front yard. I guess Daddy was too tired to fuss, and Mama had to have been busy in the kitchen. Boy howdy, was that lucky. At our house, ticking Mama off was the definition of playing with fire.

I don’t know why I was in such a dither. Perhaps my judgment was clouded from hiding in a stuffy closet with a smelly dog all morning long, but two valuable lessons were learned that Christmas season: No. 1—Never throw a lighted sparkler in dead grass, and No. 2—Grass grows back really green in the spring.

PATI GUESS Sherwood