Editor:
Growing up in a small country English village in the 1940s, all the males in the neighbourhood would build a huge bonfire of spare wood cuttings on a vacant lot in the weeks before Guy Fawkes’ Night on November 5 each year. Somebody would be in charge of making the scarecrow-like “Guy,” which would sit on top of the pile of wood to be burned in remembrance of the protester who tried to blow up Parliament in the times of James I.
When the night came, rain or shine, we would all bundle up in warm clothes and take our stash of fireworks to add to the communal pile; the gentle Catherine wheels, Roman candles, and sparklers, the exciting rockets that soared in the sky, the more noisy and scary bangers, and the ripraps the boys set off to jump around our feet. We’d eat treacle toffee, a delicious sticky cake called parkin, cook potatoes in their skins in the dying embers of the fire, and drink hot chocolate. Of course, someone would always burn their fingers from being careless with matches, or holding on to a firework for too long.
Last night, because of “the Plague,” we seniors put our carved pumpkin and a tray of treats outside in the front garden, and missed all the many princesses and ghosts we usually greet at the door. But then we suddenly heard some explosions, and went out on the deck to see what was happening. There in the sky were hundreds of different coloured stars, and they kept on coming. Someone was having a private party, which all could share.
Let’s not take away the magic. Life is dangerous, and there’s always an element of risk.
Anne Carr, Davis Bay
