Memories of a 9 Year Old’s Fourth of July

Dundalk Seagirt Hallstadt, Jr. – “Seagy” for short — was the only son of a Big-Three auto exec, Dunk Hallstadt. Seagy’s dad, Dundalk Seagirt Hallstadt (the first) – “Dunk” for short – was named after the town of Dundalk, Maryland and given Seagirt as his middle name, a somewhat poetic reference to the past (meaning “surrounded by the sea”). Despite his waterman heritage, Dunk would break ranks and take things inland. He was a talented footballer in the leatherhead era whose standout performance at Baltimore’s Eastern High School caught the attention of Don Faurot, then Head Football Coach of the University of Missouri Tigers, from whom he was awarded a scholarship, and where he would play tackle at Mizzou.

Seagy entered the world in 1959 at William Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, Michigan, just outside Detroit. Chevy moved this family to Kansas City, Kansas in 1963. It just so happened that Seagy’s mom, Kaye (nee Pruitt), was born and raised not far from there on a northwest Missouri farm with her brother, Seagy’s Uncle Huey. Some holidays, and most summer vacations while in the KC would take Seagy up and east to Uncle Huey’s farm. Chevy would move the family back to Motown again in 1967.

In the summer of ‘68, the family loaded up the Chevy wagon and headed southwest to spend the Fourth o’ July vacation week at the farm where firecrackers, real ones, were available easily and everywhere. After all, sensibilities back then were less finely tuned.

Nearly the entire week was spent plinking horse and cattle rumps with Seagy’s new BB gun (a belated 9^th birthday present bought that week at the Sears & Roebuck in Cameron), lobbing Black-Cats encased in mud balls at unsuspecting sheep a-grazing, doing a little farm work, and enjoying Aunt Gladys’s cooking. Aunt Gladys (nee, Christo) was a Greek immigrant to the U.S. whose family established themselves in Panama City, Florida. She and Uncle Huey met upon his return from overseas and WWII. Once faaaarm living was the life for her, she planted and nurtured a flourishing grape arbor in the back yard that yielded Seagy’s favorite desert – Concord grape pie (a la mode). The grown-ups got to enjoy balloon wine – grape juice piped into balloons that were tied off and placed in a basket with a rag in its bottom for padding. The baskets were hung on nails hammered into the floor joists above the storm cellar’s dirt floor. Just cool enough, the cellar held the grape juice filled balloons, and the fermenting juice inflated the juice-filled balloons, causing them to further expand. Uncle Huey would loosely keep track of calendar days while eyeballing the circumference of the balloons, and at just the right moment, known only to him, the balloons would be removed from their baskets, held over a vat and popped. The nouveau-Welches would then be bottled in Mason jars that lined a shelf in the cellar, to be enjoyed on special occasions.

The town’s annual fireworks spectacle that year was unleashed at 8:00 p.m., July 4^th, a Thursday, from an array of 32 securely entrenched mortar tubes, and three-foot lengths of two-inch pipe, all carefully placed throughout the First United Methodist Church cemetery. Hershel Sorensen and his son, Eddie, had been the ceremony-masters for years, and had perfected cemetery mortar placement. As an homage to certain Stewartsville luminaries gone on to their rewards, whose granite and marble memorials were “to spec,” each honorific mortar or pipe – thirty-two in all – was associated with a specific vertically oriented gravestone, each between 12 and 18 inches tall. The mortars and pipes were driven down into, or partially buried in Missouri sod, angled obtusely a few degrees past right, and resting against the top of the marker. The tombstone of Zebulun Clydesworth, 1874-1953, always supported the top-secret grand finale mortar full. He was much respected and beloved having served as Mayor pro tem in 1904 after a tornado destroyed much of Main Street including the mayor’s office, open for business that day. Then Mayor, Pops Wickham, was sucked out his office window and was never seen or heard from again. Zeb – as he was known – shepherded the town’s reconstruction quite capably and was fondly remembered by many for that. The other pipes and mortars were placed beside specified gravestones of the other Stewartsville luminaries, including that of Pops Wickham.

Fourth of July fireworks were always purchased in February, when the fireworks budget was approved by the town counsel, from Mess’s Fireworks in Bend, PA. The Municipality of Stewartsville now had a Preferred Pryo account and received 10% off and free shipping. A variety of skyrockets and missiles had sturdy sticks stuck to their fuselages. Their sturdy sticks would be stuck down the pipes until launch-time. Mortars were packed with a variety of aerial comets and mines, repeater cakes, and fiery aerial parachutes that streamed pyro pearls. Big & Bads, 37 Shot Victory Celebrations, Screamin’ Eagles Parachutes, and 48 Shot Color Pearl Flowers were Hershel and Eddie’s favorites. All the the other cemetery stone memorials served as impromptu backstops should a pipe or mortar fall over sending an errant missile out of its intended flight path. For a time, town folk were offended that the First United Methodist Church cemetery was used this way. Only once had a flaming fire orb ever gotten away endangering man, woman, child and livestock. That was in 1957 when an ignited mortar toppled over unexpectedly, which had not been placed in the cemetery next to a memorial backstop. “Lesson learned,” the Sorensens clucked.

Pipes and mortars were aimed east out over Pickett’s Purchase, a 5-acre pasture rented by cattlemen as a temporary grazing lot. A large stone barn was in the lot’s southeast corner, and the animals would be herded inside before the show. At 7:30 p.m., the town’s one firetruck pulled through the field’s north gate – a 1960 Mack C Fire Pumper bought at a reasonable price from nearby Gower Fire & Rescue when that town upgraded. Three first responders sat atop the truck’s cab, sipping something, and waiting for a fire to put out. At 8:00 p.m. sharp, Hershel and Eddie each lit a roadside flare to serve as his fireworks igniter. Each had four more flares in his deep overall side pocket that would be used that evening. Faces washed in hot red flare light, they walked a carefully choreographed path that wound through the cemetery, igniting each pyrotechnic surprise at scripted intervals, sending it skyward. With every fiery light display, concussion, missile whoosh, explosion, and earthbound flaming parachute, the crowd cheered and screamed and “Ooooooed!” and “Aaaaahed!”

Except for the cows in the stone barn, everybody was sad to go home when it ended.