If you know me, you know that me and power tools rarely tango gracefully. I'm scared of things that can cut off my hands and noises that necessitate ear protection. When I was taking art classes in college, I usually broke into a mild, nervous sweat when we did the woodworking unit in sculpture class. I pushed through, but reverted back to clay and plaster at my first opportunity.
We Can Ride, my employer, gives wooden plaques to each of it's new participants each year. My new acceptance of the client coordinator position thus dictated that I needed to figure out a way to make these appear out of relatively thin air.
And, at the end of the day, that meant I was going to be making them. I love my job, and I love We Can Ride clients, but I was not thrilled about this project - if willing to learn something new. My dad was happy to bust out his router and chop saw, hand over some old sunglasses as safety goggles, and teach me. Once I got past the noise, things were fine - I made him chop the wood, I just rounded the edges, more or less. My dad never had a son to teach to build a bird house or any of that, so I think it was a nice moment to teach me something he enjoyed. I really love moments like that with him.
So, on the fourth of July, I was going to finish what I started. I pulled into the drive and saw a car there I didn't recognize. It was my uncle with my 11 year old cousin - they were playing frisbee and shooting the shit with my dad. He was reclined in a plastic lawn chair, watching the two of them play.
I was soon absorbed into the talk, when suddenly my cousin decided he wanted to set off his "dud bottle rockets."
Now, if there's anything tougher on my ears than power tools, it's fireworks (I have similar reservations with fireworks that I do with saws - not wanting to lose limbs, etc.). When I was little, my uncle would drive up to our cabin with crazy pyrotechnical devices collected in Texas where he used to live. He, my father, and my grandfather would light them off, mostly in-hand, in various states of intoxication, on the fourth of July. We girls were petrified, and watched from the big picture window as what sounded like World War III was erupting on the lakefront. Grown men turned tiny boys, laughing on the lawn with souped-up sparklers shooting from their fingertips.
When my cousin wanted to play with the bottle rockets, I couldn't help but smile. I could see things starting to come full-circle. My uncle said, "Sure, son. Go get me a pocket knife, a bottle of water, and an empty planter." My dad was happy to point his godson in the proper direction, and I headed back to my car to retrieve my knife - which I knew would be easier than my dad's mammoth model.
My uncle slowly dissected the fuses from the tape, and showed his son how to set them to point away from the house. "Duds are dangerous, Sammy," he warned, as he lit, and lit again, a dud. I felt like a fly on the wall, wincing at the squealing rockets as they shot into the trees lining my backyard.
Sammy learned to do it himself, and loved the sound of them, celebrating the bang at the end. My hands were over my ears, but I couldn't help but enjoy it all through him. Then I watched as my father and his brother took out bottle rockets, and held their beers in the opposite hands. Uncle lit Dad's for him, and I watched as the fuses burnt down and the squeak - pop cut through the silence. They both laughed - and Sammy danced through the yard.
"Again, again!"
I was sad to see it end, actually - two hands holding my memories inside my brain, for safekeeping. Yeah, that's it.
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