The Boy and

I went to Florida for our annual father/son vacation. On the drive down,

we talked about the fishing trip and Jet Ski riding ahead of us. We were

spending some quality time together, but as soon as we hit the great state

of Alabama, all he could talk about was buying fireworks.

I told him,

"I don't think it's a good idea to be buying something that I'm sure

is illegal in Georgia. Besides, they're dangerous ­ not to mention

the fact they can wreck bicycles."

The Boy sighed,

"Dad. You're not gonna tell me another one of your stories are you?"

I answered,

"As a matter of fact, son, I am."

It was July

4th, and we had just dug the first bedroom to Cliff Condos. Cliff Condos

was the massive three-year dig into the cliff of the vacant lot two doors

down from our house at 110 Flamingo Street. We were in the second of three

years, and considering time lost for dirt clods fights and ever-present

water balloon battles, we were still on schedule.

With the Great

Room already completed the previous summer, only five bedrooms and a guest

room left to go and Cliff Condos would be finished. By three o'clock,

the South Georgia sun and massive dig had taken it toll on us all, not

to mention our blue jeans, and it was time for a break. It was time for

a rode trip to DQ.

It happened

so fast no one was prepared for it. One moment the six of us were riding

our bikes down to the local Dairy Queen for a lemon-lime Mister Misty

Brain-Freeze-Ice-Cream Float ­ when the next, we were being bombarded

Goofy Steve

crashed after the first explosion, running into the curb just after the

Wayne Street overpass, blowing out his back tire and bending his chopper

handlebars. Two explosions later, Older Brother Richard ran into Neighbor

Thomas, both winding up in the ditch next to Goofy Steve.

Preston Weston

riding his new three-speed bike was the next casualty. A bottle rocket

followed him down the street and exploded as he ran into Old Man Hodge's

weeping willow tree. With three speeds, he thought he could out-ride the

bottle rocket, but he was wrong. When Preston Weston saw his new three-speed

bike with a bent front wheel, the tree wasn't the only thing weeping.

After the crash

of Preston Weston's new bike I heard the laugh that was all too familiarly.

To me, the sound was like fingernails raking across a blackboard and belonged

to none other than Down-The-Street Bully Brad. Looking up, I saw him standing

on the overpass, still throwing fire crackers and shooting bottle rockets

at us down below. Looking up, I ran into Twin Brother Mark and we crashed

much to the delight of Bully Brad, who was still laughing and shooting

bottle rockets at us.

"Dad,

can we just by some bottle rockets or firecrackers and shoot them off

when we get back home?" The Boy asked. I wasn't sure which kinds

of fireworks are legal in Georgia so I decided to call one of my friends

in law enforcement.

I asked, "Are

bottle rockets, firecrackers and sky rockets legal?"

My friend in

law enforcement answered, "There are no fireworks that are legal

in the state of Georgia." That was good enough for me, and I hung

up the phone, but not good enough for The Boy. He wanted me to call my

friend back and ask if smoke bombs and sparklers are legal. Maybe we could

stop and buy some of those. For the next two hours, "can we stop

and buy fireworks" was all I heard. We finally made it out of Alabama

and to the beach without, I'm happy to say, one single bottle rocket or

smoke bomb. The Boy was not happy.

The second

wave of the bombardment came as suddenly as the first, but this time in

the form of smoke bombs! We picked up rocks to throw up at him, but Down-The-Street

Bully Brad threw so many smoke bombs from the Wayne Street overpass that

we couldn't see where he was. All we hear was his hideous laughter and

smoke bombs hissing, going off everywhere.

Neighbor Thomas

and Older Brother Richard grabbed a handful of rocks and ran to either

side of the Wayne Street overpass to try and catch Bully Brad in a cross

fire. But alas, all they found up top was a few unused smoke bombs and

a couple of Roman candles ­ which they lit and threw down at us.

That was the day we found that Goofy Steve could dodge fireworks just

as well as he dodged dirt clods.

Florida was

a wash-out, the sea was too rough to go fishing, and the Jet Ski people

just laughed at us when we asked to go out riding in the rain. On the

return trip home, we went through Alabama once again. "The Fireworks

Capital of the South" The Boy now calls it.

He made me

stop at the Black Cat fireworks shop. "Dad, call your friend and

ask him if we can buy these." He showed me a handful of assorted

fireworks. I called my friend in law enforcement once again, and he restated,

"There are no fireworks that are legal in the state of Georgia."

I asked him

if he was sure about that - what about lady fingers, star ships, sparklers,

or torpedoes? He answered, "NO FIREWORKS ARE LEGAL IN THE STATE OF

GEORGIA!" Then he suggested for a July 4th celebration, we go to

a fireworks display, like the one in Peachtree City. "You can get

a great view of it near the Hwy. 54 over pass."

The Hwy. 54

Street overpass - I think we'll stay home and watch a display on TV.

[Rick Ryckeley

is employed by the Fayette County Department of Fire and Emergency Services.

He can be reached at [email protected].]