The annual fourth of July barbecue spiraled into its typical chaos. Water balloons splattered across the deck as cousins soaked each other. Uncles battled flames from the grill. Aunties sought refuge from the suffocating heat under the maple tree, fanning themselves with paper plates. 

After dark, sticky children settled down with adults. An occasional slap echoed as people swatted mosquitoes. Humidity hung heavy in the air as the first firework burst into an array of patriotic colors.

Someone lit a bottle rocket. It zipped high before a gust of wind snatched it, depositing the flaming thing into the display box. Within seconds, the sky erupted as hundreds of fireworks exploded. Aunties ran for cover, uncles dove into the creek, and children shrieked gleefully as sparks rained down like falling stars around them.

When the pandemonium ended, Grandma chuckled from her lawn chair. “Well, that’s one way to clear the mosquitoes.” 

When I was child, my family hosted a Fourth of July picnic at our home. While I remember many things from those picnics, the memory that is most vivid involved a stray bottle rocket landing on those of us watching — thankfully not still burning. In the chaos of trying to move, we missed the moment someone tripped and set off all the fireworks.

The thing is, it even happens to the pros. Back on the island one year, someone lit the wrong part of the New Year’s firework display, and sent the whole thing up in half the time it should have taken.