I recall how I destroyed other letters a few days before the annual fireworks night in '69.
I willingly partnered with Josh in an explosive and embarrassing afternoon. It started when Josh lost interest in continual board games at his house. He craved action on a public holiday: Melbourne Cup Day. No Coral to organise us because she chose to attend the race with her parents.
Josh hit listless throwing dice in our game of Squatter.
"Do you have money?" he perked, scattering plastic sheep across the board.
"Loose change," I managed, unsure and uninterested.
I dug through my pockets, and a spattering of coins clinked in my palm.
"Smashing!" he approved, not bothering to tidy or pack the board game.
"Let's go," he commanded, keeping our destination a mystery.
I shrugged and pocketed my coins.
"A surprise!" he boomed.
He grabbed his wallet off his bedside shelf. Roused, he heaved his bedroom door behind us. The unexpected initially excited me until we lolled outside the local convenience store.
My eagerness reappeared as Josh roared, "Let's buy crackers!"
We speedily pooled our money. Inside the store, the variety of crackers on offer spread impressive on the shelves. We eliminated rockets, Roman candles and kiddy sparklers; we chose the explosive options.
Cramming crackers into our front pockets and the rest overflowing in our hands, we excitedly left the store. A box of matches rattled in our back pocket as we jogged to the thickly treed area of the local park. Josh and I banged a raft of small red firecrackers— 'til we rested bored.
"We need a war!" Josh enthused.
He found a battle. Our enemy emerged as a jack-jumper nest. The aggressive biting ants proved worthy, challenging and belligerent opponents. Circling their nest, we let off our crackers, delivering multiple A-bombs to their insect world.
Boom, bam, bang!
Echoed loudly, one after the other.
Our assault kept us occupied in the suburban bush fringe. Until the jack-jumper army multiplied, spread and charged at our feet. We squished the rangy black ants, boot over stamping boot.
"Let's scram," Josh cautioned to avoid stinging bites.
In a dash, we pelted, leaving the ants and the park.
Empty sidewalks are boring for kids. Half-filled matchboxes rattled in our hands. Leftover crackers bulged our pockets.
Josh crystallised an explosive idea as we walked a local street.
"The Viet Cong rigged booby-traps in every letterbox. Our mission is to destroy them."
Spoken in haste, it became action. We gave no awkward halt to consider the implications of naughty fun. We placed a lit firework each in a street-side letterbox.
We crouched in anticipation.
Boom! Bang!
A dramatic and hectic whirlwind dominated us. Thrilled as successful commando raiders, we zagged the street and chose a sizeable wide letterbox. Rather rickety and wooden, its dark gaped slit attracted.
This box delivered mega: smoke, flames, and fluttering bits of paper joined a loud cartoon Kaboom!
I brushed off the guilty conscience flash. The head-spinning, pure buzz triumphed over delinquency.
Of course, our luck ran out; bungling our mission never crossed our minds.
The echoing din of crackers exploding in a small metal box recoiled to insanity! We loitered to continue random mayhem at another house. Suddenly, familiar and unfamiliar angry voices, furious waving arms, and pointing fingers on porches spurred us to run.
We caught our breath, a street corner clear of our final explosion. We convinced ourselves trouble lay outdistanced. Because guilt hit, we disposed of the remaining crackers and matches down a stormwater drain.
Bravado set in as we gave each other a hearty back slap and headed home.
At school the next day, we divulged our caught-out stories. Josh related his mum fielded three calls and delivered him a stern lecture. Josh, in name only, paid for the damage as his dad forked out the cash. To partially chasten my mate, Josh's parents banned him from attending the local fireworks bonfire night.
His dad downplayed the incident, relating to Josh how, as a kid himself, he scared neighbours' dogs by throwing crackers, uncaught as a youth. He allowed Josh to fire rockets high on cracker night in his backyard—end of story.
Slouching on the lounge at home, I peeked at my palms, expecting stains— fireworks residue as red sin marks.
The phone rang in the hallway, and my heart jumped as I heard my mother raise her voice in disbelief.
My hands attempted to cover my ears and eyes before I peered into the hall, my shoulders slumped as my mother's hand viced her temple.
She placed the receiver down, shaking her head.
The phone rang a split second later.
I slunk to the couch and curled, prepared to receive a scolding and a consequence.
Another call delayed it.
"Luke put your shoes on, wait on the porch," adamant, yet not heavy-handed, given three consecutive calls.
My mother shooed me onto the street. She clutched a hessian bag and insisted on a brisk pace. My punishment emerged as a living hell as I apologised to each homeowner where the damage occurred.
It consisted of a shuffle and a timid knock or doorbells faintly pressed. My mind moored Satan on my shoulder.
I mumbled a series of jerky "I'm sorry" lines.
My mother's finger pressed to my shoulder blade. My eyes blinked rapidly, and I kept my head down to avoid the neighbour's eyes. I remember boots, flip-flops and heels, a cigarette, a baby and a necklace.
Mother stationed herself, arms crossed, chatting on each porch as I cleaned the letterboxes. Sympathy poured out to my mum for her quiet boy led astray by the devil and detonating into sin.
"Oh, Leah, you poor dear," old Jonesy wheezed between puffs on his smoke, and the sole of his boot flapped where it had become unglued.
"For goodness sake, Leah," young Mrs Haywood gasped while cradling her new baby and offering mum a cup of tea (to which she declined.) She kept alternating the weight on her ankles in bright red thongs.
Indistinct words offloaded to my ma on a porch, and a scowl delivered to me as an arrogant upturned nose — a new neighbour, fondled a fake pearl necklace—a short, plump lady wearing creamy heels.
My mother's hessian bag contained rags, a wire brush, and cleaning fluids. Each letterbox presented a dreadful mess of cracker scraps, black powder marks, and filthy debris. My arms drooped sorely from scouring the boxes.
I mumbled gratefully as my mum carried the bag as we walked home.
Comparable to Josh, I was banned from attending the local bonfire night.
Additionally, on cracker night, my mother relished my compulsory attendance at an evangelical rally in the city. Colourful banners, red, yellow and blue, adorned the auditorium.
Gloomy messages in bright, bold lettering—
For the wages of sin is death.
The soul who sins shall die.
God will bring every deed into judgment.
The charismatic speaker's message reiterated guilt and damnation. Letterbox disgrace lead-weighted my spirit — I drowned in transgression.
As the gospeller urged, I gave my life to Christ, lured by his words, "Come forward, wash in the blood of the lamb."
I left my seat beside my mother and sister; half shuffling and trudging, I completed the public walk of sin and shame.
Lo and behold, I knelt on a red rug at the front of the auditorium, accepting Jesus as my Lord and Saviour.
Around the rugs, councillors assembled to guide sinners in prayer, to help the wayward commit to Jesus. A spiritual guide approached me; for better or worse, it was Parson Dean. He relished saving my soul as his professional mission.
His Sunday sermons delivered the spectre of fire and brimstone, honing in on sins. A towering man who hurled words supported by a firm conviction. His reddish-brown eyes burned into me directly.
From the safety of a pew, I disdained how he reduced individuals and humanity to sinners. He presented a world presided over by the seven deadly vices.
In the auditorium, backgrounded by a choir of the faithful chanting salvations praises, Dean corralled me for Jesus. He knelt beside me, a lanky man on the floor. Privy to my recent 'letterbox bombing' misdeed courtesy of my mother, his hands clasped, overjoyed as I poured out my sins - those vile crackers!
I revealed to him the summoning of the Lord, "The Holy Spirit called me to be a missionary of Christ."
Dean's eyes soared heavenward.
Well, at least to the high ceiling of the auditorium.
Patting my head, he broadcasted, "Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!"
Dean prayed, head bent beside me, and directed me, "To be guided in life by Christ!"
I returned and crumpled on the chair next to my mum.
Songs of salvation wafted over my head.
I said the words, yet the clarity of being another saved soul in a sin-dominated world eluded me.