The Sky is Ablaze
Each year (around this time) a friend of mine begins a week long metamorphosis. This pal, who I will call "Harry" for the purpose of self-protection, appears to be a rather quiet middle-class fellow. You might have a neighbor like Harry, someone who blends into society well under the radar, a drab, hardly noticeable chap with no discernable quirks or flaws. You know the type; if Harry were a paint color he would be light beige, Autumn Summer Mist for those who frequent aisle twelve at Lowe's.

What would possess a man like this to become a stark-raving maniac driven by an uncontrollable impulse to destroy, desecrate, and demolish? Turn your calendars to Friday and you will have your answer. Harry is a fireworks super-freak who lives for that one day per year when he can break out of his tedious routine while breaking a little law or two in the bargain.

Harry has loved the Fourth of July since childhood. From the first time he saw a five burst mortar shell nearly destroy his parents garage, Harry was a goner. A native of Long Island, New York, Harry (much to his dismay) lives miles from the nearest legal fireworks depot. In fact, every year "The Mad Bomber" travels through our cozy little town on his way to Tennessee, a safe haven for those with a hint of gun powder in their veins.

Last year, strictly out of curiosity, I accompanied my buddy on his quest for the perfect payload. With an empty truck and a three hundred dollar spending limit (Harry's wife reserves the right to check any and all receipts), we cruised towards the Great Smokie Mountains on I-81. Harry had made many trips to this area before and had mapped out his route precisely.

In all we covered a little over five hundred miles during our journey. My favorite stop was an old converted gas station just outside of Knoxville. The proprietor was a world-weary woman named "Granny" who was missing her right arm. Noticing her handicap I nearly bolted, concerned for my safety. What chance did I have if the owner couldn't stay out of harms way? Sensing my paranoia, Granny assured me that it was safe to enter the store, waving me up the stairs and into the building.

I could immediately see why Harry had scheduled this location for our tour. Granny had everything! She even had DVD footage of every air-born missile for sale, clearly displaying its unique explosion of colors in the night sky. As Harry scurried around the establishment with a shopping cart, Granny and I watched the best indoor, almost live fireworks show I had ever seen. I found out that she had not lost her arm in an explosion, as I previously surmised, but to a piece of farm machinery at the age of three. Her family had been selling fireworks for decades, helping the brood through leaner times.

Harry had filled his cart in less than fifteen minutes and it was time for us to check-out and head down the road. Just before we reached the door I was startled by a loud POP! My back tightened and I gasped for air. Standing with a party popper wedged under her arm was Granny, doubled over with laughter. "Sorry son, I couldn't resist," she chuckled slamming her hand on the store counter. Harry found this hysterical, I, on the other hand, was shaken but pleased that I had not soiled myself.

No doubt Harry's backyard must have sounded like downtown Baghdad later that week, his plunder assaulting the heavens and filling his neighbor's yards with smoke. I confess I too had a hunger for pyrotechnics after visiting Granny's place and squirreled away some projectiles of my own to take back to Roanoke.

If you are a law enforcement official and are reading this story, please be kind. A stranger named Harry and an old one-armed lady made me buy those mortar rounds, honest!