CONTINUED: Saltpeter

The bomb didn't work as I hoped it would. I mixed all the ingredients, poured the stuff in a foot-long mailing tube and glued an M-80 firecracker inside as a detonator. Me and my friend George  carried it behind the garage to Mrs. Malozzi’s garden, lit the fuse and ran back behind the corner of the garage. If the bomb had successfully exploded as intended, with approximately two pounds of gunpowder ripping open the afternoon sky, running behind  the corner of the building would have been about as useful as raising an umbrella in a nuclear attack. Half of Cornhill would have felt the shock wave.

The M-80 exploded with a deafening bang, but luckily the ingredients didn't ignite.  Instead, saltpeter  showered over the garden. Turns out saltpeter is also a great fertilizer.  Mrs. Malozzi still talks about how great the tomatoes were that year.

A few days after what George and I would forever refer to as the “Great Fertilization,” Dad was driving me to school  when Peggy Lee’s “Fever”  (when you touch me!) came on the car radio.  Dad reached over and turned it off.  Just to annoy him, I said,

“Nice song.”

“No, it isn’t,” he replied.

There was dead silence for a moment and I always knew what that meant.  We were going to have a talk.

“Mr. Luzeri called me,” he said.  “Seems you bought a lot of  saltpeter.”

I still knew nothing of the chemical’s  withering effect on males.

And you told him it was for me,” he continued.

Surely, Mr. Luzeri didn’t think my father was making bombs!

“But we  figured you bought it for yourself," said my father.  "And you know, saltpeter can be dangerous.”

Could Dad have heard about the explosion in the tomato patch?

“So, David,  I just wanted to say that some things in a boy’s life are very natural and you shouldn’t worry so much about it or use chemicals to ...  well, to dry it up.”

“You mean blow it up, Dad?”

“Well, yes, that too.”

“It was just an experiment, Dad.”

“I’m sure,” he replied.

“I just wanted to see if it worked.”

“Uh huh.”

“And if it did, I was going to write it up for the school newspaper.”

My father slowed the car and brought it to the curb.  He set the brake and turned to  look at me.

“You certainly don’t think they would print it, do you?”

“No, probably not. But they’re always looking for personal experiences.”

“David,” he said, “no school newspaper is going to print a story about a kid who eats a box of saltpeter to keep from having an … an …”

A great light opened in my mind and I understood what we were discussing. I was really embarrassed.  So was he.

“To keep from having,” he began again, “an … an …

I said the word for him, beating him to the punch.

“Yes,” he said, “ that’s what I was going to say.”

Now I understood.  Mr. Luzeri had indeed looked at me very strangely that day.   But  who in their right mind would want to … to dry it up, anyway?

 “David, tell me you are  not going to write it up for the school paper."

“Of course not,” I said.

The rest of the ride was silent.  I wanted to tell him I wasn’t stupid enough to eat all that saltpeter.  That we used the stuff to make a bomb.  But admitting to trying to blow up a tomato patch wasn’t a pleasant thought.

Finally, as we pulled up in front of the school,  I said, “I really didn’t eat a box of saltpeter, you know.”

“I can tell,” he said, “You’re still breathing.”

“And it wasn’t the kind of experiment you’re thinking of.  I just can’t tell you about it.”

“Or you’d have to kill me?”

“Somebody might get killed, yes.”

He sighed, “You’ll be late for school. Why don’t you go and sin no more.”

“Yup, good idea,” I said.  “See you tonight.”

That evening, I quietly marked the pages on gunpowder in the encyclopedia.  I drew a bold circle around  the ingredients list and underlined the word, “saltpeter”  twice.  Then I drew what I hope looked like a tube and wrote “firecracker” on it.  I was never sure Dad came across it as I had intended, but years later as my wife and I were leaving for our honeymoon,  he hugged me goodbye and said,  “Don’t eat any firecrackers tonight.”

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Copyright by David Griffin, 2008

The Windswept Press

Murrells Inlet, South Carolina

.www.windsweptpress.com