My earliest memory of fireworks and the Fourth of July took place when I was 4 or 5. I had a best friend named Carrie and her dad had a sailboat. I guess our whole family was friends, my dad was first mate when her dad raced his boat and my mom and hers exchanged recipes and children. Carrie was the middle child with 2 brothers. Her room was everything pink and white and frilly that I envied--complete with a Strawberry Shortcake bedspread. I could be blindfolded today and led into her house and I'd know it by the smell--of food and a small dog and something warm and yeasty in the air. Her mom made grilled cheese sandwiches with Wonder Bread and Velveeta--not at all the way my mom made them.
But I digress.
Was there any other flavor? Oh yeah, Cream Soda. Ick.
Every year until we moved (when I was in 2nd grade) we'd set sail into Lake Michigan. Bundled into our Toughskins and sweatshirts and cumbersome orange life preservers with canvas straps, Carrie and I would sit on the front of the boat and talk about the Mandrell Sisters, the Osmonds, Barbies and sailing together around the whole world. It would turn darker and we'd join our families on the other end of the boat for Jolly Good Cola (grape!) and Jiffy Pop Popcorn. At dusk her father would turn the boat so it faced the shoreline and drop anchor.
Carrie would be Barbara, which made sense since she could sing. I would be Louise because I had brown hair.
Half the fun was watching the dome rise out of the pan! And that smell...
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