"The First Family of Fireworks"

This story stretches back to my childhood days. It happened when I was, I believe, ten years old. The big 4^th of July fireworks were held at the new enclosed shopping mall in my hometown. The parking lots would fill by early evening. This was in the days of blue laws in South Carolina and little was open in the mall on a holiday. However, the food vendors were turning a great profit. So we sat on the hood and trunk of our car with goodies to eat as waited for the darkness to come. Families of all shapes and sizes surrounded us as the anticipation grew for this annual summer spectacular.

Around 9 PM, as the last shades of sunlight faded into the sky, the first of the fireworks were set off. Unfortunately, they were NOT lit across the way in the vacant lot. They were, instead, set off by some kids a couple of rows over from us. (Fireworks were and are legal in SC and kids grow up knowing how to use them safely – or they have shortened fingers to prove they learned the hard way.) All of us looked over at the first pop of the firecracker and saw: a balding man, a slightly plump woman, and three boys – best guess ages 13, 8 and 6. They were taking a great delight in shooting off bottle rockets, roman candles, and firecrackers near their unsuspecting neighbors. My mother, in her typical fashion, said, “How rude! That’s dangerous! What kind of parents let their children do such a thing?” The unofficial show stopped in part due to complaints by those nearby and in part due to the start of the real show. At least we were safe from those stray bottle rockets.

The calendar now moves to the mid-1990s. My wife and I are enjoying a 4^th of July trip to Wisconsin. The venue is Lakeside Park on the shores of Lake Winnebago in Fond du Lac. It’s a pleasant summer evening as we and hundreds of others tourists and residents gather to watch what we are told will be a top-notch fireworks display. As dusk approaches, I feel a sense of deju vu. Off to our left, comes the snap, crackle, and pop, not of cereal, but of fireworks. A bottle rocket whizzes past us and pops loudly next to a young couple, awaking their sleeping baby. I cast a glance in that direction and note: a balding man, a slightly plump woman, and, well this time, there are two children – a boy about 10 and a girl around 8. They squealed with glee and continued their assault on the trapped masses. Finally, the combination of the actual show and grumpy citizens quells these kids. A lady near us was heard to say something like, “How rude! That’s dangerous! What kind of parents let their children do such a thing?”

Our final stop is Iowa City – 4^th of July, 2006. Our family makes the three block trek to the university golf course. We join other neighbors on the driving range hill to watch the fireworks display from our sister city Coralville. In the fading light of dusk, Coralville is brightly lit three miles a way. It’s a clear view of the show without the messy traffic. I’d guess about fifty people are on the crest of the hill and a few more on the slope. Just a nice, relaxed tune with our neighbors. It’s become an annual event of sorts. As the darkness began to wrap around us, I saw out of the corner of my eye an all too familiar sight: a balding man, a slightly plump woman, and – in this edition – three boys, best guess 14, 12, and 6. They hiked to the far end of the hill. As soon as they put their blankets down, the boys hauled out sparklers and started running down the hill in full “war cry” mode. This was followed by a few firecrackers, some whistling sparkly things, and then the dreaded bottle rockets. One bottle rocket spun away and popped right beside an elderly lady. The whole family laughed and celebrated, though I’m not sure they saw where it landed. A couple of rather large gentlemen suggested to the family that continuing such behavior might not be a great idea and pointed to some isolated areas on the golf course that might be more suitable. As fortune would have it, the Coralville show began and the issue was thankfully ended. This time it was yours truly, now having reached such an age, who said to his own family, “How rude! That’s dangerous! What kind of parents let their children do such a thing?”

After returning home and putting my exhausted children to bed, I pondered this phenomenon. It was too odd to be a coincidence. I flipped on my laptop and perused the resources of the Internet before sleepiness caught up with me. A few Yahoos here and a Google there and I found the evidence. I knew it had to be there. This was just too weird.

Let me introduce you to the Rudemores. They are known as “The First Family of Fireworks.” An odd title but apparently they bestowed it on themselves. They not only enjoy attending shows but also becoming a show. There seem to be some dispute on their place of origin. Some say France, others say New York City, and still others say rural Oklahoma. Some scholars postulate that they have ties to the Pushi tribe of the Montana plains. Apparently, they have populated almost all countries of the globe. The Rudemores have distinguishing features, some of which we’ve encountered: male pattern baldness, post-pregnancy weight gain, children that seem to range in age from pull-ups to early puberty. They are social creatures but also somewhat anti-social. To put it another way, they are in community but not of community.

Rudemores can be found at all socio-economic levels, all educational backgrounds, and in many faith groups. They all look and talk like you and me. However, along with issues related to fireworks, they may also dart in front of you on the highway and give you the finger, let their dog mess in your yard, take 15 items into the express line at the grocery store, and cut you off as you try to reply to their question. Rudemores of the Baptist persuasion are know to argue loudly and forcefully for red carpet over green at church business meetings. Then, after the red carpet is installed, they move to another church that is less confrontational. They often camouflage their identities with regular names. But, beneath the surface, they are authentic Rudemores.

My not-quite-exhaustive pre-bedtime research did not, unfortunately, find ways to change them. Tolerance and patience seem to be the best devices for dealing with them in the short term. It may take centuries off genetic development for their habits to change. Maybe prune juice could help, too.

Fireworks season is now over and I’m relieved. No more mystery missiles or runaway bottle rockets to threaten my family…………

Sorry, a computer virus tried to hijack this entry. I managed to block it but I did hear the faint sound of a “boom” and laughter.