My wife won’t allow me to shoot off fireworks anymore. Well, my wife and everybody else in my cul-de-sac, that is.

For a long time, fireworks were illegal in Georgia, but for two glorious nights every year, everybody in the state wantonly abandoned all sense of good citizenship and broke the law. On New Year’s Eve and the Fourth of July, you could just about read by the light of all the fireworks exploding overhead. And the amazing thing was that the police just looked the other way! It was like Prohibition all over again.

And I freely admit that I was one of those lawbreakers. (Note to self: Check with attorney before publishing this to see if statute of limitations has expired for fireworks criminals.)

In my defense, I didn’t start off as a fireworks criminal. The baby fireworks I got at the grocery store seemed just fine, until I saw my neighbor shooting off all his contraband fireworks that he bought in Tennessee. His fireworks were all World War III, end-of-life-as-we-know-it. Mine were Fisher-Price sparklers. The indignity!

I knew right then that I needed to get some real fireworks, and nothing in my life would seem right until I had them. So, I went inside and apprised my wife of my plan. She stared at me and said, “You are not going to spend all our money on fireworks, are you?” I said, “No, I’m not stupid!” So, I raided my kids’ college fund, because technically that’s not our money.

The next time I had a gig in Tennessee, I plundered one of those fireworks stores they strategically place on the border between the two states. With my truck loaded with enough explosives to start a minor revolution in a developing country, I pulled out on Interstate 75 and headed back home. I felt just like Pablo Escobar smuggling my illicit wares back across the Georgia state line.

It was a nerve-racking experience. I just knew I was going to wind up on one of those reality cop shows.

Policeman: Sir, do you have anything in your vehicle that I should know about?

Me: Uh, would a trunk full of illegal explosives fall into that category?

The next Fourth of July, I bolted out to the street the instant it became dark and lit my fireworks with all of the enthusiasm and expertise of a six-year-old. After I lit my first rocket, I was filled with wonder and amazement—at the rocket, sure, but mostly at the legal loophole that somehow allows these battle-ready explosives to be handled by the general public. God bless America.

About five minutes into my fireworks display, I thought it would be a great idea to place a box of 24 rockets on top of another box. Right after I lit the fuse (how many tragic stories begin with those very words?), the whole box of 24 rockets tipped over on its side and started blasting my neighbor’s house.

My first thought was, “Oh, my gosh! He’s a veteran! Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop!” Because I knew at that moment he was either diving under his table or racking his shotgun.

It was obvious that quick and decisive action was needed, so I looked over at my wife to see what she was going to do about this mess. But she and the kids had selfishly run off and hidden behind a tree.

Fine. Apparently, she expected me to take care of it just because I’m the one that screwed up. Somehow that makes it my responsibility, I guess.

My solution was to kick the fireworks to the side, so they weren’t pointing at my neighbor’s house. I did a little test kick and the box swiveled like a gun turret and sprayed another salvo across the front of my neighbor’s house.

At that point, I turned to my wife and said, “Honey, we’re moving. Get the kids in the car. We’re leaving everything.”

I’d like to tell you that I came up with a brilliant plan to stop the Apocalypse Now-type scene before me, but what I actually wound up doing was staring with my mouth agape, watching volley after volley fire directly at my neighbor’s house. I remember saying something clever like, “Huh. There’s something you don’t see every day.”

The good news is that since then I’ve moved to a state where fireworks are legal. The bad news is that it doesn’t matter how legal they are, my wife still isn’t going to be okay with me being within 50 feet of them. And, you know what, I think she kind of has a point.

Truth-o-meter

98.5%

This story really happened pretty much exactly as I’ve described it here, with the exception of my wife laying down the law. She never said (out loud) that I have to stop shooting off fireworks. That was my decision entirely. Unfortunately, this is not my only episode involving life-threatening fireworks mishaps, so I am officially retiring from exploding stuff. At least until next New Year’s Eve or Fourth of July.

© 2025 Charles Marshall. Charles Marshall is a nationally known humorous motivational speaker and author. Visit his website www.CharlesMarshallSpeaker.com or contact him via email at Charles@CharlesMarshallSpeaker.com