(It is with quite a bit of pride that I find myself teaching in the same town as Granny spent the bulk of her career. In fact, I have a colleague who had Myrtle as a teacher, and, just this year, I had the mother of one of my seniors, who told me that she would never forget having Myrtle as a kindergarten teacher and that she could still recall several things they learned that year!)
When she retired, I was blessed to become her sole pupil. I fondly recall many afternoons over at her small apartment at Fairview Manor where we played games, colored, sculpted, read National Geographic and Boy's Life, re-enacted Star Wars with my action figures, took walks, and listened to stories. I remember her reading me Beowulf right before nap time once. I spent the whole time not sleeping a wink. I just couldn't get over how our hero, Beowulf, could have ripped Grendel's arm right from the socket! That's the kind of grandmother I had. You're jealous. I know.
She was amazing; she was like steroids for my imagination.
I also have fond memories of Myrtle coming over to our house (only a few blocks away) to visit and babysit.
On one occasion she sat me down on our three season front porch and had me watch the approach of a massive thunderstorm. Prior to that, they had terrified me (and they continued to terrify my mother). But once Granny sat with me and explained all the science behind thunderstorms, she demystified them for me. I was never scared of them again, even while my mom remained glued to the radio listening for the dreaded tornado warnings, ready to drag us all over to our neighbor's house and hunker down in their basement.
My family at the time took roughly two trips per year to my favorite place on earth (well, at the time, anyway) Grand Forks. We went in early July to get fireworks (which were illegal in MN) and in early December for Christmas shopping.
So that trip to GF to get fireworks was one of the very best highlights of my year. Not only that, but I enjoyed immensely organizing and re-organizing and re-re-organizing my fireworks arsenal.
I'd meticulously stack them in my room. Then I'd take them down to the living room and stack them there. Then I'd move to the porch and re-stack them again . . . all the while just imagining what they all would look like exploding in just a few days.
Luckily for me, Mom and Dad always let me get extra firecrackers and bottle rockets to pacify me until the Fourth.
I used to love to grab an olive colored 7up bottle, a punk, and head out to the old rail road depot down the street.
I loved the way just touching the punk's tip to the fuze dangling over the rim of the bottle would cause the fuze to come alive.
Those few seconds before the fuze reached the bottle rocket were some of the most exciting moments (hey, I lived in a very small town. What can I say?).
I would hoist the bottle over my head, awaiting the shower of sparks and the thrush of the bottle rocket as it took on a life of its own and roared up into the air. At least that's how I imagined it.
Then I'd rush to grab another one and repeat the process.
It wasn't until Grandma accompanied me on one of these excursions that she totally changed my perspective on things (as she was prone to do on just about everything).
Here is the moment -
Perspective
We stand
amid the old tracks
tar baking up from the ties
gravel grinding under our shoes
and tall grass rustling against our knees.
I hoist the
7Up bottle
loaded with
the hissing
Black Cat
heavenward.
These are
the glorious seconds --
the gray fuze hisses orange,
flaking off pieces like a snake’s discarded skin,
heat singes my hand,
as the rocket takes on a life all its own
its tiny red body tears free
the muddy smoke swirls from the green glass
leaving
a taste of
sulfur on the breeze.
Pleased as a
boy can be,
I reach for
the next candidate.
Granny,
standing over me,
shields her
eyes from the sun,
and watches
the tiny rocket
twirl up
and up
and up
and . . .
pop!
With the
punk clenched between my teeth
I have
another hoisted
by the time
the tiny red body
lands in the
grass behind us.
“Don’t you ever enjoy their flight?”
This never occurred to me.
So we watch
the next rocket
climb
above rooftops
twisting and turning,
above
highline wires
leaving
a faint gray vapor trail
above
the trees
its
red body ascending
up to where the water tower
reaches
then
. . . pop!
“I wonder what it looks like from the rocket’s point of view?”
From that moment – everything is
different.
I see
the oaks towering,
the pines pointing
our roof and chimney
the flat, gravel covered roof of the
high school
the towering cross on the peak of
the Catholic Church
yards sectioned into neighborhoods
blocks neatly squared off by
streets and alleys.
a tiny boy with his grandmother
both peering up
and growing smaller.
34 Fourth of
Julys have passed since then
and on each
one
I launch at
least one bottle rocket --
the old 7Up
glass bottles are long gone
replaced by
cheap plastic.
But
eventually I became good enough
to simply
hold the rocket by its very tail.
Knowing the
precise time -
a blend of tension in the body
heat from the ignition
and 34 Fourth of Julys worth of
timing
to let the
rocket go free.
And I watch
it go up and up and up
and I see
the man grow smaller
and smaller
and smaller.
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