Nauvoo Trip: Wes Makes An Unlikely Discovery About Melissa

I'm a Pyromaniac. 

Do you have a treasured memory from your childhood? 

One of my favorites is from when I was six years old and

we lived in Orem, Utah.  That Fourth of July,

 my dad splurged just a little and bought us a few sidewalk fireworks.

There were spinning flowers and,

what I remember most,

little black smoking snakes that grew and curled and twisted. 

It was the only time in my youth that I had fireworks. 

It was fascinating and thrilling to me.

The acrid smell, the fumes,

the laughter and squeals

as me and my siblings watched my dad light the fire works--

They are all a vivid memory in my mind. 

We never had fireworks again. 

Either we didn't have the money to buy them,

or we lived in Crestline, CA, where fireworks were banned. 

I saw many aerial firework shows as I grew up,

but the magic and astonishment I felt as a six-year-old

watching my dad light sparkling, glowing, smoking

magic seemed a surreal and treasured fable.  

Even as a mother, 

I could not give my own children the experience that I couldn't forget. 

Living in the foothills of dry, flammable mountains

prevents one from some activities. 

What a thrill of hope I had
as we travelled across wet Missouri and gaped at

tent after tent of fireworks stands.  These weren't little tents either;

they seemed to be circus tents that housed multitudes of elephants!

I wondered what types of fireworks could fill such an immense space--

surely something exciting!

I wanted to beg Wes to pull over,

but restrained myself,

knowing that our budget was already bursting with this trip. 

I watched longingly as red and blue ribbons

waved by and disappeared.

After several tents had traipsed past the windows of our car,
Wes must hav noticed my longing stares:
"What would you think about checking out the fireworks?"
My heart leapt at the thought--but caution kept me
from exposing my hopes too openly;
"What for?  It would only get the kids' hopes up."
Secretly, I felt my own longings begin to pine.
I couldn't believe my husbands next words:
 "Maybe we could get a few little ones for the kids."
I was ecstatic:  "REALLY?!!!!!"
I unloaded all the memoir of my childhood--
my father lighting little magics, the smells, the excitement.
Wes just chuckled as he eased onto the next off-ramp
and we pulled up to a tent that could have
stretched over a football field.

The kids were all sleeping, so we abandoned them
to their dreams for a short jaunt inside.
The minute we entered, my eyes were drawn in a thousand directions:
Long and skinny, squared off boxes,
chains of little dynamites--all assulting my imagination.
As Wes began meandering from table to table
and down haphazard rows,
I couldn't keep up.
One worker casually notified us: 
"Hey, everything is half off--we just need to get rid of it."
My excitement soared as Wes just winked at me,
a pleased and knowing wisdom in his eye
told me he knew he had me hook, line, and sinker.
I stopped at random wares that caught my eyes,
"What's this one?  How does this work?  What does this look like?
How loud does this one sound?  Tell me about this one."
I fired off question after question to Wes,
plumbing the depths of his pyro-technic knowledge,
a coveted secret I had only touched the surface of at age 6.
I stood enwrapt at the tales he seemed to tell:
the colors swirled in my imagination
at his descriptions, detailing the intricacies of magical fireworks.
As he wove picutures in my mind,
we just added more and more to our basket,
each time I asked, "Can we try that one?"
I was like a little girl again--and I loved it!

 After a half-an-hour of browsing--and amassing an arsenal
of Fourth-of-July fun,
we checked out giddily and headed for the car.
The kids saw us coming, loaded down
with a full box of fireworks.
This was going to be a Fourth-of-July to remember!