Fire on the Water

My grandparents have a cabin on a lake up in Washington and every year there’s a party up there with family and their guests. There’s an indian reservation nearby so all the uncles and cousins pool their money together, pile into cars head over to stock up on fireworks that are illegal off the reservation - stuff like bottle rockets, roman candles and mortars. This year we plopped down five hundred dollars on the stuff. The kids spent literally all evening firing rockets and didn’t even come close to finishing them off. The mortars were cool as always, even if the neighbors on the lake showed us up. I can’t imagine how many thousands of dollars those guys must have spent on their display.

Most of the weekend was spent cheering up my dog who is tolerated but not exactly adored by that side of the family, swimming and trying not to get sunburned. It was hotter than I can remember it ever being at the lake, most everyone seemed to be in a good mood and I got to ride in my uncle’s new ski boat. Oh, and when I took the dog for a walk the first night I found a five dollar bill next to the road! That’s ten unearned dollars I’ve pocketed in the past week.

During the main part of the fireworks time, I scampered between the roman candle/bottle rocket lighting area and the dock, where I could see fireworks on both ends of the lake. Occasionally some of the firework lighters from our house would light a mortar off the dock and we’d have to gather up on the gangplank to avoid any shrapnel. Otherwise, it was perfectly safe. Except that someone accidently knocked over the pipe that was firing off the roman candles. Of course it would land in such a way that it was then aimed directly at the dock. My sister and I were caught in its path and I didn’t quite realize what was happening until a piece of fire went down my pants and burned my ass. Yes, that’s right. I was wearing thick, reinforced combat fatigue pants (I wore these things in Afghanistan!) with a belt, but it didn’t help. What really are the odds of one random spark ending up DOWN MY PANTS? There’s a burn mark on the inside of the pants, but not the outside. There’s a blister on my ass. I’m not joking. One in a million shot, that was.

I may head up there again this summer, since it’s only a few hours away and I’ve let everyone know that I’m bored bored bored and would love a place to swim and canoe and hang out by the fire pit, even if there are some chores involved.