Yerington Stories: The Wonder of Fireworks

Yerington Stories:  The Wonder of Fireworks

by Chere L. Brown

“A man is a very small thing, and the night is very large and full of wonders.” Lord Dunsany

I am so glad America's earliest settlers brought their enthusiasm for fireworks to the United States. Fireworks and black ash were used to celebrate important events long before the American Revolutionary War. The very first celebration of Independence Day was in 1777, six years before Americans knew whether the new nation would survive the war; fireworks were a part of all festivities. This early fascination with their noise and color continues today.

My first recollections of fireworks where at a baseball field in my hometown of Yerington, Nevada. My mother had an old Dodge Station Wagon, which she backed into the field so us four kids could watch from the back of it. My two brothers with their fresh new crew cuts and matching short outfits, which my Aunt Jerry had made them, where so excited. They kept asking, “When is it going to get dark enough?” The anticipation of the show was unnerving them. As we waited for the Nevada sky to darken, we ate a picnic and swatted mosquitoes off our arms and legs. I hated mosquitoes; and so I was more anxious for the show to be over; so I could get away from these pesky bloodsuckers.

My town was made up of copper miners, farmers, and cattlemen. There was no shortage of pickup trucks with their .22 rifles in the back window gun racks, filled with families picnicking and anticipated the great event. We also had a Paiute Indian reservation right in our town. The Indians sat on spread out blankets or on the few bleachers available. We were positioned so we could see not only the fireworks in the sky, but the men setting them off, which was a show in itself.

As the sky finally reached an acceptable point of darkness, I had bumps all over me; I could not stop scratching. I just knew that the mosquitoes had carried off a pint of my blood in their now fat little bellies. BAM, BOOM, SIZZLE, CRACK! I looked to the sky and saw the fireworks explode into a beautiful artwork. My mouth dropped open, and during the entire show I forgot all about the mosquitoes and the itch.

Wonder of wonders! One definition of wonder is rapt attention or astonishment at something awesomely mysterious or new to one's experience. I think that pretty well describes my experience that night.

Bill Withrow expresses better than I, how I feel about the wonder of fireworks. "I often use the word "joy" when describing fireworks. It is a considered word, deliberate in choice. Not just amusement, entertainment, astonishment, but joy. Our art makes us all into children again for a while. We become one in our experience for the moment; lost in the sound and color and light. We see large forces, stronger than we could ever be, yet beautiful in their effects. “

Long before I knew the Lord, I think I was fulfilling Edward Young’s quote, “Wonder is involuntary praise”; I just didn’t know how to express it. Later I learned that the Bible states, “The heavens declare the glory of God.” I am glad that every 4^th of July we shoot off brilliant fireworks, because as Lao Tzu said, “From wonder into wonder existence opens.” It is easy as we get older to fall into the rut of ‘same oh, same oh’. Nothing shakes me out of that blasé state like a fireworks show. It puts the wonder back in my life. At least once a year, wonder becomes the wow,wow, wow of my life.

Yerington Stories: Baseball and Mosquitoes

Yerington Stories: Baseball and Mosquitoes

by Chere L Brown

It was one of those hot dry-your-eyeballs-out kind of days and I was board.  My nine year old mind decided to go visit my friend Rebecca, who lived across town, which in reality was only about four blocks away, but to me seemed quite a distant.  Rebecca was a few years older than me.  She was a sandy-haired Alabama girl with a Southern accent, which made her a weird bird to us Nevada kids.  She was constantly putting on chap stick, because the dry Nevada air caused her lips to chap and split. We became acquainted through our mothers.  My mother was the hospital administrator who had hired her mother as a nurse.  Because of this, my mother made it my job to befriend her (or else).  My mother seemed oblivious to the fact that an eleven year old was not particularly interested in being friends with a stupid nine year old.  Rebecca seemed aloft and arrogant to me (although at the time I did not know the meaning of either of those words).  All I knew it wasn't easy to be Rebecca’s friend.  Everything had to be her way based on seniority.

When I got to Rebecca’s apartment, for once she seemed glad to see me.  “You want to go with me to watch the Ladies Softball team play?”  I knew better than to say anything but “Sure”, so off we went.  We walked the four blocks from her house to the baseball field talking about baseball.  When we got to the field the two teams were just getting ready to start their game.  The white ladies were playing against the Paiute ladies.  Suddenly, Rebecca piped up with, “Hey, can we play?”  The captain of the white ladies smiled and said, “OK, you can cover third base and your friend can go to right field.”

I was so excited.  I ran out to right field. Enthusiastically, I spread my legs and crouched down, rocking back and forth in anticipation of catching a fly ball.  Several innings passed, but all hits seemed to go to center field or left field.  Now the field was all dirt and as you got to the outfield it turned into small weeds and then into small sagebrush. As the game progressed the heat and dust became uncomfortable.  The worst was that the mosquitoes were eating me alive.  I was dressed in shorts and a sleeveless blouse so they had plenty of landing space.

As the game progressed, I became bored with the game, since I wasn't

getting any action, but very interested in slapping mosquitoes. I’m not talking about a few mosquitoes, no, I’m talking about hundreds of mosquitoes.  I was slapping and jumping in place and praying for the game to end.  I was so busy slapping mosquitoes, I didn't see the fly ball coming until it passed over my head.  Those Paiute ladies were powerful sluggers.  Everyone was yelling at me as I ran as fast as I could through the weeds and sagebrush to retrieve the ball. 


By the time I caught up with the ball, the hitter had already reached home plate.  I was embarrassed I had missed the ball and so angry at the mosquitoes that I closed my eyes and threw the ball as hard as I could towards the pitcher’s mound. When I opened my eyes, the pitcher was knocked out cold, laying on the ground.  Apparently she had gotten tired of waiting for me to retrieve the ball, and had turned around towards the catcher.  My throw was right on spot and hit her dead center on top of her head.

Everyone was yelling at me and for help.  I was horrified.  I was convinced I had killed her.  At that point I walked off the field thinking “I’d better go tell  Mom I killed the pitcher.”  As I walked I kept listening for the ambulance, but I didn't hear one.  I didn't want the ambulance to reach the hospital, where my mother worked, before I did, because I wanted to tell her first.  I kept looking for the police to arrest me and ran as fast as I could.  

To my surprise there was no ambulance, no police and my mom was quite understand.  Apparently the pitcher was revived and the game was finished minus me and my damn mosquitoes.