Duck and Cover

Duck and Cover 
 
Had a very nice evening over at my friend Shyam's this past Saturday night.   I headed over late in the afternoon.  The shindig was held in the same venue as my buddy Steven's rehearsal cookout.  A nice, country setting. 
 
There was no beer canoe.  I need to get that out of the way.  I was disappointed.  There was a keg.  But it was not in the canoe.  I think all parties need a beer canoe.
 
The canoe was filled with watermelon (which, as Drew Carey once told us, is nature's tastiest laxative).  After a half a second's consideration, I decided that I could live with the idea of a watermelon canoe.  Yeah.  Watermelon canoe's are alright by me, too.
 
(In fact, upon thinking about it, most things are made cooler by being placed on display for consumption in a canoe.)
 
There was catfish, and hamburgers, and beer, and slaw.  None of which was served in a canoe, but all of which was really, really tasty.  Shyam made the wonderful, wonderful slaw.  Wonderful.
 
I arrived at the get-together in time to catch the tail-end of a water fight, in which the young children present were flinging cups of water at each other.  Tremendous fun, of course.  Since none of the kids had brought along bathing suits, they were participating in the contest in their skivvies.  There was discussion among the spectators as to how old you have to be before it becomes inappropriate to wander in public in your undies.  After a night's thought, I think it depends on which party controls the White House.
 
Needless to say, if I were to walk around in my shorts flinging cups of water on people, I'd probably spend a night either in the hospital or the graybar hotel.  No matter who was in office.
 
Later in the evening, I was traumatized in the worst possible way.  Simply:  Fish water in my shoe.  Shyam will pay.
 
A pretty decent rainshower blew through after I'd been there a while.  A good, hard, soaking rain, one that blew in sheets, and kept us huddled in the picnic area, which was protected by a tin roof.  The roof kept us dry, but the shower pelting against the tin but also made conversation impossible unless you shouted.
 
The rain passed.  A few people left.  A few more came in.  And we all talked of many things.
 
And then, night fell.
 
And I was drafted.
 
See, there were fireworks.   And owing to the fact that I was there, and I had enough fingers to operate a lighter, I was drafted into the corps of folks who wanted to set off fireworks.
 
There were attempts to draft me at the rehearsal dinner I spoke of.  That night, I was able to beg off.  I mean, honestly, who in their right mind wants somebody who calls himself Big Stupid Tommy out there lighting explosives with them?  That logic worked fine at the rehearsal dinner.
 
Last night, "no" was not an acceptable answer, because Shyam's father was doing the asking.
 
To the other side of the lake we went, loaded with explosives.
 
I'll make a long story short.  The five of us came out of the experiences with no missing fingers, and no powder burns.  And how that fact came to be? It be only the grace of God his own self.
 
Over on our corner of the lake, we managed to destroy all but one of the five launchers we had.   I was afraid it was my ineptitude that had destroyed a couple of them, but we decided that the cheap fireworks were more to blame, when Hal and Shyam's father had also destroyed their share. 
 
We made it out with no missing fingers.  There were ringing ears, however.  There were more than a few times that we had to go ducking for cover.  And a couple of us ended up in the bed of a dry pond when the triple launcher decided not to work exactly right....
 
After maybe forty five minutes, we'd expended our ordinance.  I'd say we got 85% of it up into the air.  Some exploded on the launching pad, and some of it went out onto the lake, with one in particular making a beeline toward those sitting on the dock across the way watching our "masterful" display.  We wandered back to the eating area, covered in mud and soot.  We were happy, and we'd all had our aerobic exercise for the week.  Running, screaming and ducking will get that heart rate up for you. 
 
Riding back, I asked Hal if the ringing in my ears meant I'd had a good time.
 
But it was fun.  The American male likes blowing things up, even if it means risking blowing himself up in the process.  And to do a job right, you need the truly stupid.
 
I'm Big Stupid Tommy, and I ain't blown my self up.  Yet.