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.
Showing posts with label Childhood stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Childhood stories. Show all posts
5/26/15
The Porter Incident
We all have that one childhood memory we wish our parents would forget.
For me, it was at a brewery restaurant when I was seven. I ordered a refill of my made in-house root beer... and got a little more than I bargained for.
I was suspicious when it came, there were less than half as many bubbles as there should have been, and the foam was lasting a lot longer than it should have, but I knew my family would start asking questions if I just kept eyeing it suspiciously, so I leaned up to the glass (I was a bit short for the combination of tall table and big glass) and took one tiny little sip.
Not root beer.
My mother, being a woman of boundless sympathy, took one look at my contorted little face and cracked up so badly she almost fell out of the booth.
My dad looked at her in confusion, saw me forcing myself to swallow instead of spitting beer all over the table, and joined her in laughter.
My sister, who was nine at the time, was confused, but also thought my face looked funny.
"That was not root beer!" exclaimed overdramatic little seven-year-old me, bursting into tears as she unnecessarily decided that the 'trauma' of this day would haunt her for years to come.
Still laughing heartily at my pain, my mother passed the glass to my father for inspection, my father took a sip and determined it to be porter.
By this point I had stopped crying, but I was still horribly upset- that stuff tasted dang awful. Even thirteen-year-old me would still insist that about half my taste buds died a gruesome death that day.
It was then that our server came over and was horrified to learn of her mistake, she was certain that she was about to lose her job and possibly go to jail for serving alcohol to a seven-year-old, but once she explained that some of the taps at the bar weren't working properly and the bartender hadn't labeled the pitchers my parents were more than willing to laugh it off as an amusing accident.
I only wish that they would let me live it down, something tells me it's going to come up again -like it does at most Christmas parties and family gatherings- when I turn 21 this fall. Still, I have come to terms with the story's place in the family lore (I wouldn't post it here otherwise), I'm sure there are worse childhood horror stories to have your parents recount to everyone they incorporate into their friend groups before you've even met them...
For me, it was at a brewery restaurant when I was seven. I ordered a refill of my made in-house root beer... and got a little more than I bargained for.
I was suspicious when it came, there were less than half as many bubbles as there should have been, and the foam was lasting a lot longer than it should have, but I knew my family would start asking questions if I just kept eyeing it suspiciously, so I leaned up to the glass (I was a bit short for the combination of tall table and big glass) and took one tiny little sip.
Not root beer.
My mother, being a woman of boundless sympathy, took one look at my contorted little face and cracked up so badly she almost fell out of the booth.
My dad looked at her in confusion, saw me forcing myself to swallow instead of spitting beer all over the table, and joined her in laughter.
My sister, who was nine at the time, was confused, but also thought my face looked funny.
"That was not root beer!" exclaimed overdramatic little seven-year-old me, bursting into tears as she unnecessarily decided that the 'trauma' of this day would haunt her for years to come.
Still laughing heartily at my pain, my mother passed the glass to my father for inspection, my father took a sip and determined it to be porter.
By this point I had stopped crying, but I was still horribly upset- that stuff tasted dang awful. Even thirteen-year-old me would still insist that about half my taste buds died a gruesome death that day.
It was then that our server came over and was horrified to learn of her mistake, she was certain that she was about to lose her job and possibly go to jail for serving alcohol to a seven-year-old, but once she explained that some of the taps at the bar weren't working properly and the bartender hadn't labeled the pitchers my parents were more than willing to laugh it off as an amusing accident.
I only wish that they would let me live it down, something tells me it's going to come up again -like it does at most Christmas parties and family gatherings- when I turn 21 this fall. Still, I have come to terms with the story's place in the family lore (I wouldn't post it here otherwise), I'm sure there are worse childhood horror stories to have your parents recount to everyone they incorporate into their friend groups before you've even met them...
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