My family always did something special on the 4th. We had friends or relatives around, we churned home-made ice cream, I made pickle and potato chip “sandwiches” and we had a very tame fireworks display. All this was done in our back yard.
Before my mother met and married my father, she had been married to a man who died within one week of contracting polio. He left her an insurance policy and she was smart enough to use it to buy a house. 3018 Angus Street.
When my father entered the scene, married and moved in, he took the back yard in under his able wing. I have no clue what it looked like before his arrival, but by the time my little memory was at work, it had three distinct levels.
The bottom tier was grass and raised flowerbeds with roses and agapanthus, and a small grapefruit tree. In years to come it was transformed into “golf driving range”. The next level was grass surrounded by flowerbeds, a concrete wishing well and a latticed love seat alcove. There was a plum tree with very scratchy bark and an apricot tree. When my father finally retired, he felt compelled to use every single piece of fruit from his land. We had apricot jam, plum jam, apricot “leather” until my mother could no longer stand coming home from work to a kitchen filled with sickly sweet smelling pots and pans.
Adjoining this lawn was a slate covered area with a built in bar-b–que, large redwood picnic table with benches and a bed of fuchsias. In later years it would also be home to a wood rat that would appear during party dinners, much to the utter embarrassment of my mother.
The top level of the yard was where I spent most of my time. It backed, for many years, onto an open lot. When the “open lot” was in the process of being built upon, my mother was horrified at the language of the workmen. She complained to the boss. I was enchanted by the forbidden words.
Along this upper level, my father made a small trail to a play area. At the opposite side was a large white peach tree. The Babcock tree was later axed to make room for a playhouse constructed from our neighbor’s garage door. I have always thought of that tree. The play area changed over the years and saw a swing set swapped out for a ping-pong table. And then, with my adolescence, the area fell into disuse.
But on the 4th of July, the backyard always came to life.
Sparklers were always a big hit. And once we discovered that you could “spell” with them in the night air, their lure grew stronger. Hearts, initials, circles lasted just that few seconds longer than they should, and made them magical. We were never a family for the high-flyer type fireworks. We kept everything close to the ground, always wary of fires and lawsuits, I suppose. Nothing ever went higher than a foot. This may explain why my favorite “firework” of all time is THE WORM.
The Worm was a slate gray pellet the size of a thumbnail. We would put them on the bricks that lined the lawn: the same bricks that my father had carefully laid when he took over the back yard of Angus Street and made it into a three tiered oasis. When a match was put next to the worm it would start to grow and an ashen “worm” would grow into a curling, snaking shape. It left permanent marks on the brick that would be a reminder of 4th of July for years to come. I’ll bet they are still there.
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