Trouble with Grandpa

Mischief for everyone, from 8 to 88!

Gibberish: Flash Fiction Friday - Gold Sparks

June 27, 2025

Scoot’s Assignment: Write about a bad time for fireworks, something “gilded with consequence,” a character with an addiction, and the phrase, “don’t speak.”

Photo by Jennifer Kalenberg on Unsplash

Trouble with Grandpa

I inherited my childhood home from my parents. I’ve always loved this place. There’s a wonderful patch of cowslips growing in the backyard. The little yellow bell-shaped flowers bloom almost all spring, right into May. They symbolize mischief — I know this because my dearly departed Grandpa told me so, long ago when I was still a child, on the morning after our greatest adventure, an exploit so gilded with potential consequence that it will live on in my memory forever.

My parents had been planning their tenth anniversary vacation for months. Three days before they were set to head out, Aunt Josie called to inform them that she was sick, too sick to come over to stay with me. Grandpa was living in the in-law apartment by then and he piped up, “Don’t worry, I’m here! Mikey and me, we’ll be fine by ourselves, won’t we Mikey?” I nodded enthusiastically -- Grandpa was the most ungrownupest grownup I knew and hanging out with him was always a blast.

My folks weren’t quite so keen on the idea. Grandpa had always been a bit of a loose canon, addicted to the excitement and pure joy of mischief. Even in his 80’s, he was a cheerful, puckish man, always intent on abstracting as much fun out of life as possible. He could see that Mom and Dad were on the fence: They really didn’t want to give up the anniversary celebration, but they were more than a little nervous about the idea of leaving an 88 year old juvenile delinquent alone with his eight year acolyte for three days and nights. Grandpa was suave. “C’mon, we’ll behave, won’t we kid?” I just grinned inanely.

Dad finally decided. “Hon, you’ve put so much work into planning this. How much trouble could they get into anyway?” Mom's forehead crinkled with worry, but she finally agreed. Grandpa and I would be home alone for the Fourth of July! We capered around the livingroom like lunatics as soon as their car pulled out of the driveway.

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After a late night spent watching too many movies with Grandpa, I woke up to a sunny sky, a good sign that the Fourth of July celebration would be perfect. After a tasty breakfast of cold pizza, we headed off for the center of town to watch the annual parade. I loved the huge draft horses and the bagpipe band and the pirate float, carrying Mr. Avery and his big, old cannon, loaded with blanks. It was loud, chaotic, and more fun than just about anything. People made really cool floats and pulled them behind tractors or pickup trucks — as they passed, the folks riding on the floats would throw candy to all of the kids.

After the parade, Grandpa took me across the street to the Green, where all kinds of booths were set up, selling all kinds of things, but especially food! We ate hamburgers and fries and had ice cream sundaes for dessert. Mrs. Hutchins was at the pie tent and teased Grandpa as we passed her booth, “That boy needs some fruits and vegetables!” Grandpa grinned as he bought a big apple pie to bring home for our supper.

Once home, Grandpa suggested that I take a quick nap while he set up a surprise for after the fireworks at the baseball field. After the last big boom and waterfall of sparks died down, we trudged back up the hill for home. It was hard work, but anticipation of the mysterious surprise gave my feet wings.

Grandpa led me into the backyard, and proudly displayed his project: A huge gallon-sized pickle jar, filled with some powdery substance, with a long wick leading away from the top. Grandpa grinned maniacally as he lit the fuse and hustled us behind the overturned picnic table. “Watch this,” he chortled.

Late at night on the Fourth is a bad time for fireworks, especially the homemade variety, and even more so during the dry, hot weather of July. Grandpa’s bomb blasted gold sparks as high as the roof, which tumbled back down to the dry grass of the lawn, which immediately caught on fire! We scrambled with the garden hose and managed to put out the miniature wildfire quickly enough, but the next day we saw the extent of the damage, a huge blackened circle right in the middle of the lawn. How could we ever fix it before Mom and Dad got home? Grandpa had the answer to that, too: “A flower bed! We’ll dig up the burned up section and replant it with flowers as an anniversary present for your folks,” he proclaimed.

We went to the garden center and came back with scores of cowslips. I couldn’t help asking, “Why cowslips, Grandpa?”

He just chuckled. “They are fairy flowers, they represent adventure and mischief. Just a little private joke for you and me.”

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Mom and Dad loved their Anniversary Garden. I tried to explain what happened, but Grandpa put a finger to his lips. “Don't speak,” he told me, “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.” So it was forever our secret. And the cowslips grew and prospered, spreading adventure and mischief, potent with the memory of my grandfather.

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