This Isn’t the Fourth of July

From the open skies of Wyoming, here’s this month’s short story about ranch life, an insight I learned from my family, and a piece of trivia.

Story

My dad typically hired young boys to help on the ranch, and our relatives were no exception. My stepson, Shawn, and his cousin worked for him one summer, but they mostly played. They also got into things they shouldn’t have, as young boys do. One afternoon, they chased bats in the hayloft, disrupting the horses tied in the barn. So Dad ordered them to clean the horse stalls, just a two-hour job. But the two boys took most of the day to finish and then explored the hay meadows looking for rattlesnakes rather than spending time on other chores.

Both boys stayed in town with my folks when they weren’t cavorting in the country. One day in late June, we let them buy a few long strings of black cat firecrackers on sale before the Fourth of July. They ignited them in the driveway, filling the neighborhood with the sound of rapid-fire machine guns. 

The fireworks kept the boys busy all afternoon. When silence befell the household, we all thought they were finally done creating mischief. Dad relaxed in his front room easy chair, flipping through the Rawlins Daily Times and chewing on a chocolate chip cookie. He and I had been reminiscing when his eyelids started to droop. It was time for a nap.

Suddenly a barrage of black cat firecrackers shot off at once, their discharge banging into our ears as if they were right beneath us. The sounds were coming from indoors—from the basement! Dad jumped from his recliner, the paper and cookies spilling to the floor.

“Christ!” he hollered, running to the door leading downstairs.

Dad leapt two stairs at a time, reaching the basement as the two boys rose to their feet, spent matches and exhausted fireworks smoldering next to them on the concrete floor.

“For God’s sake, why are you two lighting fire crackers in the house?” Dad yelled.

The two boys stood silent, their faces beet red. They sheepishly stuck their hands in their pockets.

Dad pointed. “Look behind you.” 

Turning around, the boys faced an open closet five feet from their fireworks display. Sitting on the closet floor was an open wooden box barely a foot from one spent black cat.

“Look inside the box,” Dad said. 

The boys stared into a case full of dynamite sticks Dad had purchased to dislodge a large beaver dam on our irrigation ditch at the ranch. Each one had a fuse pointing to the area where the firecrackers had been discharged.

The boys shrank back, cleaned up their mess, and meekly walked up stairs. The fireworks display was over. 

Insight

From my dad: It pays to know where you are at all times—and know the nature of the environment you play or work in.

Did You Know?

Beaver dams can choke off so much water, a creek can’t be used to irrigate a hay pasture.

Book News

A Sometimes Paradise won another award! The Bronze IPPY Award in Regional Nonfiction, West-Mountain. The Independent Publisher Book Awards are open to authors and publishers worldwide, rewarding those who “exhibit the courage, innovation, and creativity to bring about change in the world of publishing.” I’m so pleased and honored.

Until next month,

Mark Miller

“The life lessons I learned from my family will endure in me as long as I breathe.” From A Sometimes Paradise.