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THE OLD CURMDGEON
THE FOURTH REVISITED
I was a little surprised this year when I woke up on Independence Day; the air was filled with pows, whistles, pops, and bangs. The reason I was surprised was because these noises usually start around the middle of June.
This year, because of the quiet prelude, I assumed that people were paying attention to the laws that prohibited fireworks. No way—they just saved them for the actual day.
I don’t have any real objections to fireworks, outside of their being illegal. I do wonder why so few people get arrested. You would think that the police could just follow their ears and find all of the pyrotechnic maniacs. I have little interest in causing those little explosions anymore, but when I was a lot younger . . .
My cousin would start saving our allowances about the first of May. When it came close to the day, we would go over to a little novelty store on Warsaw and lay in our supplies. We probably spent about ten bucks each and walked away with several boxes full of explosives. We didn’t mess with Flower Pots, or Snakes in the Grass, or Roman Candles. We were serious noisemakers.
When the holiday arrived, we would go to my grandfather’s farm. It was on Glenway, where God’s Bible School, or the Cincinnati Theological University, what ever they call it now, is located. I would climb up on the roof of the carriage house, my cousin would situate himself on the front porch of the house, and we would throw firecrackers at each other. We did it all afternoon. Although there may have been minor injuries, no one was ever seriously hurt. We did this until our supplies were exhausted.
When darkness came, we would walk over and sit on the porch of the big house, light sparklers, and watch the firework display at Mt. Echo Park. A few years of that, and the aging process, have dimmed my interest in fireworks.
I live on a hill in South Price Hill. On the night of the Fourth, I sat on my porch. From dusk to well after midnight, I watched an awe-inspiring display of pyrotechnics. Some of them came from the Western Hills Country Club. But for the most part, they were set off in the backyards of my one-day-a-year criminal neighbors. And the display this Fourth of July I witnessed far surpassed any thing I had seen at Mt. Echo as a kid.
All I could think of was how much money was going up in smoke.
*This column was originally published in the August 2008 Price Hill Historical Society newsletter.
The musings of everybody's favorite Curmudgeon appear monthly in the Price Hill Historical Society's award-winning newsletter, Heritage on the Hill. We'll highlight some of the columns from past issues here, but if you want to read the latest grumblings from the Curmudgeon every month, become a member of the PHHS to receive our newsletter. Join online at our MEMBERSHIP page.
If you like the Old Curmudgeon, Roy Hotchkiss, a book
that collects ten years of
his colums is currently available
at our Museum or through the PHHS online bookstore.
