Pyros

It’s only one harmless little sparkler, the likes of which no Fourth of July season ought to go without. It’s only one innocent little rendition of a space capsule reentering the Earth’s atmosphere. It’s nothing more than a spontaneous celebration of America’s freedom from British oppression.

Ask Stroker and Grunter.

Of course, it’s difficult to get the full effect of a sparkler just standing there in Homer’s front yard and waving it around like some moron. What with the majesty and splendor of all those sparks spurting from that eerie central glow, it only seems reasonable a sparkler ought to be something else, something more, maybe a rocket, or a meteor, or something along those lines.

Blame it on Grunter.

He proposes it might be an emotional thing to toss a lit sparkler high into the air and watch it fall. And he’s right. It is rather emotional. But Homer says, just watch, he can throw his higher. There it goes and take that you Redcoats.

But on this day, Grunter’s fireworks incarnate. He rears back and heaves his sparkler high over the maple tree—high, high, into the top of Mrs. Cooper’s weeping willow, where it sputters and sparks for a couple of hours, it seems. When it finally fades to black, they all laugh.

Woozy with inspiration, Homer makes aim for the clouds, winds up and fires with a grunt that makes Grunter jealous. It’s all a blur as his sparkler slams into a big limb overhead and drops into the middle of his front yard, fizzling and popping like mad. It’s like a bad dream as Homer plucks it out of the grass and notices it kind of stays there, in the grass, celebrating America’s independence, while Stroker and Grunter guffaw as though it’s the most hilarious thing they’ve ever witnessed. It’s like slow motion as Homer stomps on the spreading circle of fire, stomps on it with his deck shoes, looking like a moron. It’s like it isn’t happening as he bolts for a bucket and the backyard hose. It’s like they’re all going to die when the third bucket of water has the effect of gasoline on the blaze.

It’s right about the time Mom bursts out the front door, dashing toward the crime scene and squealing in terror with a broom bobbing up and down in front of her, that Homer begins to feel faint.

It’s the last thing he remembers seeing, Mom in her apron, squealing and swatting wildly at the conflagration with her little broom, before he passes out.

It’s all Stroker’s fault.