One of my favorite toys when I was young was the Carbide Cannon, every parent's nightmare toy. With it, my brothers and I could create really load bangs, louder than firecrackers, over and over, to our little furry heart's content. There is no way in the world a toy this fun could be produced today. If it were, the cannon would come with instructions on how to use it on page one and how to file a reckless endangerment lawsuit on page two. What a great toy.
I was playing with it on the screen porch of my childhood home when I was interrupted by my father’s heartless mother. My brothers and I heap blame on her desiccated old soul - unfairly I grudgingly admit - for how emotionally disabled our father was. Anyway, she hobbled out onto the porch and snatched away my toy, mumbling something about the sabbath. What a horrible old witch, I thought. What could possibly be wrong with issuing a loud boom once every five seconds on and on during a quiet, early sunny Sunday morning?
