About
five years ago I wrote this blogpost <http://johnonefive.blogspot.com/2008/12/evidence-that-god-loves-me.html>
in which I describe explosive devices I made when I was a teenager. They were assembled
from wax paper, a suitable weight like a marble or a construction bolt, and
gunpowder that I carefully and painstakingly scraped out of caps for cap
pistols.
Well,
that kind of gunpowder seems to be all but disappeared from the scene. So you
can imagine my surprise and wholesome delight when I found some caps in a store
not long ago. Being now older and mature and therefore confident that I could
handle such material safely, I bought some.
Brimming
with excitement, I came home and carefully extracted the gunpowder from the
caps. My hands were trembling with anticipation, but I still managed to create
a small pile of the precious powder. Wax paper and construction bolts were, of
course, easy to procure. With clear eyes and careful craftsmanship, I assembled
a bomb: I placed a generous pile of gunpowder onto a square of wax paper and
positioned a bolt over it. Then I dexterously twirled the wax paper into its
characteristic teardrop shape.
Before
going onto the street, I held the result in an open palm, a little damp with
the emotion of the moment. I hadn’t seen such a beautiful thing for several
decades, and, although eager to put it to use, I hesitated. I was not averse to
throwing the item—oh no—I merely wanted to drink deeply of the exquisiteness of
the imminent event. With an indulgent grin, I remembered that Winnie the Pooh
had sagely observed that the moment just before the honey pot touches your lips
is, somehow, perhaps, even more wonderful than the first taste of the honey.
At
peace with the world, and gratefully marveling at the wonder of how the remembered
pleasure of past explosions could cross the decades and swell the enjoyment of
the coming detonation, I went outside. I paused at the foot of the driveway and
viewed the cul-de-sac that stretched before me. I smiled wryly as I considered
the possibility of neighbors going calmly about their homey business in a safe
and quiet community, completely unsuspecting of the energy about to be
released.
I
threw the waxen teardrop upwards and watched breathlessly as it described a perfect
parabola. With the full force of gravity, it struck the pavement sharply.
Fffffffftt.
That
was it. A mere whisper. A mild exhalation as of a sudden short sigh. A cat’s
yawn. No, maybe a kitten’s yawn. If fleas sneeze, it would have been like that.
After
the chill of disappointment dashed over me, my next reaction was embarrassment.
I hoped that no neighbors had been looking out of their window at the moment of
my humiliation, thereby intensifying it beyond tolerability. With narrowed
eyes, I took a quick scan of the nearest houses. I saw no quickly withdrawn
face, and felt relief.
Then
I needed someone to blame. I had a suspicion. My lips pursed and my eyebrows lowered.
Then my nostrils flared.
To
confirm my hypothesis, I strode out to where the bolt lay harmlessly on the asphalt.
Feverishly I crumpled a piece of
newspaper I had with me and lay the entire roll of caps in it and set it on
fire. Barely audible puffs manifested. I had to bend down and turn my head so
that my ear was close to the burning newspaper.
Fffft. Fffft.. fffft.
That
was it. If there were germs on the nearby pavement, maybe they would have heard
explosions, but I doubt it. To me, it sounded as if a mouse was using an
aerosol can.
I
came to my feet. I knew whom to blame. Insurance companies. The very people who
have been quietly sapping all joy out of life for decades. The people who
forbid the building of treehouses. Who saw to the removal of diving boards at
motels. Who ensured the removal of BB guns and any toys with small moving parts
from the shelves of toystores. The people who want to make the world completely
safe and devoid of risk and therefore all of the immense joys for which risk is
an essential prerequisite.
They
should be sued. Obviously it’d be next to impossible to bomb their offices.
