November fifth

Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and lot.

I grew up with that little verse. To us kids it was as important as “Jingle Bells.”

It celebrates the burning of Guy Fawkes, (actually, he was hung) for the attempt by him and his buddies to blow up the Houses of Parliament in London.

Close to the 5th of November, we kids would make a ‘Guy’ to be burned on our local community bonfire. We used old clothes and stuffed them with newspaper and whatever we could lay our hands on. Then we took him out and sat him in a prominent position so that we could ask passersby to give us a “penny for the Guy.” We managed to collect a fair amount of cash this way; then we had to spend it on fireworks.

We would sit the Guy outside the local store while we went inside to buy the goodies. I don’t know why, (Yes I do) but we always bought bundles of ‘bangers’ (firecrackers, not sausages). These little guys gave us a lot of pleasure even though we were in danger of losing a finger or two. We would build bridges and dams and blow the heck out of them. It was very satisfying.

Later when we got older someone found out that if you dropped one down a piece of blocked-off pipe and added a rock they made a pretty dangerous rifle. My buddies and I didn’t go there but I knew several kids who did.

The community bonfire was awesome! Everybody contributed with old furniture, books, cardboard boxes as well as wooden boxes from the local market. We even went around the furniture stores asking for old stuff. The branches of local trees were a little nervous too. One year someone came across some railway ties so we added them to the heap.

While at the market looking for more stuff to add, one of the council clean-up guys told us that they were going to come the next day and take down the bonfire as it was getting too big. Panic plan!

When the community heard the news everyone helped. The railway ties and a lot of the old furniture disappeared into various basements and when the council came the next morning, there was just a tiny bonfire left. The truck they used backed up to the site and a wheel sunk into the road. It was later discovered that there was an old Roman tunnel that went to the river right under where we lived.

On the day we bought all the stuff out and built a great bonfire. I have a souvenir, as a lump of coal got into my shoe and left a nasty burn on my ankle.

Today, in England, you can’t buy fireworks from the local store like we used to, but you can go to an authorized community site to see the show. It can’t be as much fun as we used to have, but I’m sure it’s a lot safer. I sometimes shudder to think what damage we ten-year-old kids could have done with a bag full of explosives.