Between July 4th, 2004 and whatever day last October (2014) when my parents moved, we were asked by untold multitudes of visitors what the deal was with that one weird bush. It didn't help we frequently told first-time visitors which house was ours by telling them to look for the bush with a giant freaking hole in it, because all of the houses on that block look pretty much the same.
So what did happen? How did we end up living with a bizarre parody of topiary in our front yard for an entire decade? Well, the answer is quite simple really, it began with a misfire, was extended by miscommunication, and went completely unchecked by sheer apathy.
Allow me to set the scene:
Apart from the *incident,* July 4th, 2004 was a display of patriotic enthusiasm at our home like every year before it and several after. It was about 117 degrees outside, but my sister and I played outdoors with our friends most of the afternoon because we were rowdy little kids and Mom was busy cooking. Dad barbecued enormous amounts of meat, the game was on the TV with the sound muted, and as dinner grew closer, family friends gathered, careful to park down the block so as to leave room for the fun.
After praying and eating, we all made our way out front at around 9pm to celebrate our independence from totalitarian dictatorship with the biggest fireworks our remarkably left-wing county fire department saw fit to allow. It was glorious. Sparks of every color shooting eight, nine, even ten feet in the air, whistling and shrieking as they flew. Snaps and sparklers abounded, and because I had achieved the mature and responsible age of nine, my dad even let me help light some of the smaller fountains. We couldn't get the boombox to work, however, so my mom parked the car in front of the house with all the doors open and the stereo blasting patriotic music.
I was taking advantage of the fact that my mom's back was turned to clean out the dessert table as my dad laid out some of the small spinners known as ground blooms. The first one went off just fine, rocketing around the street in a dizzying miniature display of lights and sounds. Things got interesting when he lit the second one though, at first it seemed normal, but it puttered to a lame halt after only a few seconds. Declaring it to be a dud, my dad took a step out to throw it in the wet sand bucket, but it started up again. And then stopped. And then launched itself ten feet off the ground, shot straight over my dad's head, and bounced off the edge of one of the rosemary bushes on its way to the gutter, where it lay still until Dad grabbed it and tossed it in the bucket.
We all chuckled a little as my dad started setting out the next round of small fountains, and then one of my sister's friends noticed that the bush was on fire. It was a glorious pandemonium, half of us kids ran screaming across the street as the adults herded us out of the way, one of the moms grabbed an empty stroller and pulled it away from the bush, my mom ran to slam shut all the car doors and move it away from the bush as my dad dragged the hose across the driveway, toppling lawn chairs in his wake. Naturally, the moment my mom got behind the wheel, the car battery died, but the car was far enough out of the way that keeping the doors closed so that the smoke wouldn't get in was enough. It was one of the most glorious scenes of loosely controlled chaos I have ever seen in my life.
The fire was limited to part of one bush, so once it was out we set off the rest of the fireworks. It took a while to coax some of the younger kids back to the driveway and my parents stopped letting me help light the fountains in case there was another dud. A friend with jumper cables got our car battery going again, and the evening returned to its proper pace.
The next day, our landscaper cut off all the burned bits and said we just had to wait for it to grow back. A few months later, we switched landscapers and the new guy didn't speak English. He thought we wanted the bush to look like that, and we couldn't explain otherwise, so after a while we just got used to having a big stupid hole in the middle of one of the rosemary bushes. For over ten years. Personally, I liked it. It was a constant tribute to the most epic Fourth of July of my childhood, even if it was completely absurd. Maybe because it was so absurd.
