1909 footage digitally restored in 2014.
I met a man from the future at one of Ray Bradbury’s talks.
Around 10 years ago Ray would give classes on writing in San Diego once or twice a year. These turned out to be Ray reminiscing about being a writer, not so much about the craft. Not that I minded.
Sitting next to me was this elfin little old man. I noticed him because he was so obviously happy to be there: fidgeting, and winking at me, and nodding along at everything Ray said. As though he’d heard it before, the way a fan would show their familiarity with a much-loved symphony piece, say, by conducting with their fingers along with the performance.
Ray started into a story and the little man caught my eye, grinned, and whispered, “Oh, thees. You’ll love thees one.” He had an odd accent, like a Monty Python caricature of a French accent.
After the talk, there was a question & answer session. The little man eventually was called on, and he looked at Ray and asked, “Tell me, Meester Bradbouree, do you believe een…time travel?”
“No. It’s impossible.”
I was surprised how flatly dismissive Ray was. He sounded almost irritated with the question. This puzzled me.
The little man grinned widely. “Oh, you theenk so?” And tapped his temple.
Later, we lined up for autographs. Predictably, the little man is right in front of me. We get to Ray, and the elf gives Ray a pen to sign with. When Ray takes it, it flares to life like a lightsaber, glowing hot blue. Ray held it up, curious, inspecting it. “Oh, you like eet! It is my gift to you!”
As I walked to my car, I didn’t see how the little man left. Probably because I didn’t look up.
This was the core of our annual firework arsenal. We’d often have a brick of these things, leading to a steady course of them over the evening, punctuated by fountain cones or other more exotic (expensive) devices. As the night wore on and we got bored with lighting them one at a time, we tried them in clusters, discovering new and novel principles of thermodynamics. You could braid the fuses of several together. Sometimes this would form a larger, combined Voltron of hissing, skipping, colored flames. Sometimes they wouldn’t stay together, and the spinning fireball would eject a few offspring into new orbits, usually toward watching children. Kept us on our toes. Amazingly we kept all our toes, too.
The pinnacle of Ground Bloom Flower art was amphibious operations. Once the Flower got up to speed, spinning and skipping crazily on the concrete, someone wondered how it would do on water. The families of redneck scientists adjourned to the laboratory: our backyard pool. For a delivery system, a 6″ square piece of plywood was found and floated in the pool. Light the Ground Bloom Flower, nudge the wood out into the pool as the fuse burned down, and…amazement. The Flower whirled to life and danced across the surface of the water. Some of them would fizzle and drown immediately. Some skittered around and burst just as they would on land. But a few…a few of them fought to live. My favorites were the ones that started to slow down, bubbled, then found their second wind and found a way to keep going.
Bonus: the morning of July 5th, the kids on the block were ordered into the pool (hours earlier than normally permitted) to dive and recover the spent Ground Bloom Flowers from the bottom.
Some years would see a block party with neighbors combining firework arsenals. The Dagnalls never kicked in the large boxed assortments. In part because I was particular about the fireworks I liked and the ones I didn’t at the local Red Devil/Freedom/Wildcat stands. I preferred to handpick my fireworks. I swore by Piccolo Petes and Ground Bloom Flowers, maybe cunningly constructed pyramids of Black Snakes that left cool scorch patterns like Maori facial tattoos on the concrete for the rest of summer. Why pay extra for boxed sets that cost more yet were larded down with impotent Sprinklers?
Also, in part, because of a streak of rebellion. Others would bring the retail fireworks and play within the bounds of “safe and sane”. Others might mishandle things and suffer burns or cause structure fires, earning our scorn as well as a trip to the hospital. We refused to be bound by rules meant for these other sorts of people. What could be more American, right?
So my father would use his trucking connections to get the Good Stuff: illegal fireworks “up from the border”. A few bricks of tiny, firecracker-on-a-stick bottle rockets, which were more fascinating because they were contraband than because of the results they delivered. They weren’t much better than sparklers, honestly. But there were always a few of their larger cousins, as well: bona fide rockets on thick guide rods with rocketish plastic fixtures–nosecones and fins and such. These looked serious. Aeronautical, even.
Some of the other dads would set down a fountain, light it with their Bic, and scurry back to watch fifteen seconds of sparks. When this petered out, we’d unlimber our family artillery: a man-high length of black PVC pipe, square hole cut in the side down at one end. Scarred and scorched at the muzzle from Fourths of July past.
You know the old movies where they make a big deal out of loading a cannon or a musket? Wadding, powder, shot, whatever, tamp it down, aim, fire? That’s how this felt to me. A throwback to an earlier, more revolutionary era. Less safe and sane, no warning labels.
We boys would stand at the ready with buckets of water, in case an errant round went into a neighbor’s landscaping. My father would drop a rocket down the pipe. The fuse would appear where the notch was cut in the PVC (good design, that). Light, tilt in the direction you want it to go, wait…and foomp! Worked like a charm, trailing sparks to burst fifty feet up.
One year the police helicopter was around, and we kids were in mortal fear that we’d all get swept up for the illegal fireworks. Some of the dumber adults, my father included, decided to use the rocket tube for suburban antiaircraft instead. Larger rocket in the tube, wait ’til Angel One wanders by, don’t fire ’til you see the whites of the searchlight…foomp! No, the rockets didn’t come anywhere near the helo, but it’s the thought that counts. The lingering thought of “WTF, Dad?”
Great design for “headspace”: inside are books, sheltered from the elements, for you to browse and borrow.
…that country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and mid-nights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain…
-Ray Bradbury, preamble to October Country.