The Fourth of July brings to mind memories of bottle rockets.
On the land my family still owns in Colorado, there is a whole lot of wide-open space. Two ridges align a valley that runs right down the middle of it, our campsite sits atop the hill and the most beautiful views you have ever seen are to every direction; the face of Pike’s Peak pushes the sun up every morning and it’s my favorite place to be.
As a child, I remember Dad would always drive a couple hours north to Wyoming to get fireworks this time of year. Then we would join three or fourother families for a weekend of camping and pick teams for a bottle rocket war later in the evening, gather our bottles to shoot out of and stake out good shooting spots.
Each team took a ridge and lighting ensued. Rockets sparked and shot and popped, never really making it to the other side because it was too far. The dogs would run back and forth across the valley chasing therockets that were too high to even attempt to catch.
We would eventually run out of rockets, and the dogs would run out of energy, so we would head back to the campfire where the dads would put on a show with the remaining fireworks and the dogs would run and hide from the sound while we made s’mores.
The next morning after we had our breakfast, or sometimes before, Dad would make sure everyone went down to the valley and picked up every last rocket we shot the night before.
We would spread out like a search party and scan the grassy meadow looking forthe red sticks. To this day, every time I see a bottle rocket, I’m taken back to the grass and trees and hills and rocks of my favorite place to be.
Now my childhood friends who came along on those camping trips are taking their own families there. I hope their kids remember their times there as vividly as I do mine.
◊◊◊
Cassi Lapp is the news clerk/staff writer of The Times of Northeast Benton County. A Colorado native, Lapp graduated from the University of Arkansas. She can be reached at clapp@ nwaonline.com.
Opinion, Pages 4 on 06/30/2010