Our park was reclaimed from a farm within living memory, and some of its stone gateposts survived. Windswept and raw, radiating out from the angry and still glowing, and fenced off, mound of ash, groups of kids would range surprising distances collecting up as many of the damp, spent tubes and cones, and sticks, of fireworks as they could.
This gleaning had no aim, other than the gathering in of the magical things themselves, with their thicker-than-normal carboard, their fragments of fantastical labelling and their smell; and no songs were sung about it. But it would nevertheless take place, and extend riskily beyond the park; into gardens for an especially alluring roman candle husk.
These would be presented at the home and, part of the ritual, immediately binned by your mum. But this was a tradition that endured, taking place every 6 November.
Small, damp pieces of dowl, plastic cones and rolled up pieces of scorched label. I hadn't thought about this for nearly 20 years until you posted it. Thank you.
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