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kids stood around. Our eyes were the size of overcoat buttons as we watched the first flames grow then shoot up the height of the bonfire. We all cheered as they reached our ghostly figure, for only then could we start lighting the fireworks. All the crackers were pooled and placed in an old bathtub normally used to hold water for stock, who like pets, were moved far away from the night's activities. Honey was locked inside the Symonds' house.
    Parents stayed with their children to supervise the selection of crackers. We were allowed to choose the coloured firework we wanted, but an adult had to put it in the mound of dirt specifically constructed for the night and light it. We were free to light our own sparklers though. What you usually did was get one ready to light off the one you were holding, before it went out; like the men that spilled out onto the street at the pub did with their cigarettes. We'd wave the sparkler about, making letters and numbers and words in the blackness.
    Buckets of water were on the ready in case the fire got out of control and all shooting fireworks were pointed away from the creek and the wheat crop beyond. Bungers were to be saved for one last big noise. The older boys were allowed to join in with the men and light them, but they had to throw them well away from everyone. You had to be at least ten years old. They were also the only ones of the kids allowed to let off tom thumbs. That was how it was suppose to be, but they'd always pinch bungers early in the night and go off into the street and let them off. Steve let one off on purpose near the group and got yelled at, but no one took it too seriously.
    In the distance, further into town, you could hear other groups of people celebrating around their bonfires. Wearing gloves, some men held the roman candles at arm's-length and had a contest to see whose one shot the coloured balls out the furtherest. Eric Horan the blacksmith, won. Dad was third.
    At one point, looking away from our fire over to the creek, I could see through all the cracker smoke the hazy outline of a group. There were maybe eight or ten, men, women and children around a smaller camp fire, but without any crackers. They just stood and looked toward our bonfire.
    Sky rockets whizzed high into the sky from the milk bottle launching pads, exploding into the darkness and filling the sky with more stars, while Catherine wheels placed on nails in fence posts spun out their bright colours. The flower pots and volcanoes were placed into the mound of earth then lit. It was so exciting watching from the safety of one of Nan's cuddles, Dad light the paper taper then stand aside as it slowly burnt away until a gush of sparks and colour spewed out the top. I loved Cracker Night. It was magic! It was just a truly magic, magic night I'll always remember. A night we never wanted to end.
    And when there was nothing left in the bathtub, when the last bang, the last eruption of colour was over and the smell of smoke hung heavy in the damp air, we gathered with our mates around the tables to eat. Nan gave her permission for us to eat as much as we liked.
    There were about fifty people I guess, all up. The women had pooled the food and gathered around the tables placing people's selections on plates for them. Nan ladled out the soup into mugs and placed them on the table next to the damper for people to help themselves. The men stood and ate with us before drifting off into little groups, drinking beer and talking. Mrs Symonds didn't disappoint either. All the kids waited to see what would be revealed from under her tea towels this time. It was a large tray piled high with coconut macaroons, with a small dot of strawberry jam on top of each one.
    "I don't care if I don't get to the front of the class and get picked to do Benediction. I'd even happily go to Hell a native heathen, as long as they had coconut macaroons there," I declared to Barry.
    At one stage I copped a sneaky elbow to the ribs