England's bonfire night is the fifth of November. I suppose that was when we used to celebrate it here. It was quite an occasion for us. We sometimes called it cracker night. We had no idea what the night was about, or its history. It was purely a cultural habit.
(Fire) Crackers appeared at the local store for a limited time in advance for us to carefully peruse before buying. What a fine old time we had at bon fire cracker parties. The last one I remember was at our neighbours, the Hitchens. So many rockets, catherine wheels and penny bungers, that cost a good bit more than the equivalent of a penny. What about the Jumping Jacks, thrown at the feet of a girl of your desire. My parents had already separated, but Father stayed the night at the farm for the last time. The relatively new HR Holden supplied a heat source to light crackers, by the way of the working cigarette lighter. The bon fire was big and burnt strongly, radiating immense heat over anyone within a few metres.
Slightly odd that our strict Baptist neighbours welcomed the likes of us to their Bon Fire party, but they did. Slightly odd that the celebrated it at all. It just occurred to me why Mother and Mrs Hitchens were never really were friends. They were so worlds apart.
Then along came old misery Premier John Cain who banned fireworks. What a spoiler of fun he was.
No more cat anuses blown apart. No more children burnt by fireworks. No more mate's scorched balls. No more cats with Jumping Jacks tied to their tails, running into the bush in terror. No more dogs trembling in fright.
You just have to love the good old days when life was simpler and the pleasures so innocent.