Walking Down Memory Lane With Taylor’s Fireworks

It has been said that the only constant is change. This is true except if you’re hoping for change from a $20 bill after filling your car’s gas tank.

Tremendous changes have taken place on the farm where I launched my dairy farming career 46 years ago.

When I first rented that bedraggled little farm, the city of Brookings was a mile and a half away. The city has since, in an amoeba-like fashion, gradually engulfed the entire farm.

The day I lost my lease on the farm, my elderly landlord’s son informed me that the entire half-section would soon be turned into houses. It took nearly four decades for that process to begin, but it’s currently proceeding at a breakneck pace.

A sprawling retirement community now sits where I used to raise soybeans. A dental office and a vast, multi-story apartment complex occupy the area that once was my alfalfa field.

The entire farmstead has been erased. Not that it was a great loss. The farmhouse and the outbuildings could have been best described as “decrepit.” All the buildings could have benefited from a little creative destruction.

It’s strange to look down my former driveway — which now has a stoplight perched at the end — and see all those tiny houses where there once was a rundown, gambrel-roof dairy barn and the muddy cattle yard that adjoined it. Those sparkling new homes probably have walk-in closets that are nicer and more spacious than my old farmhouse.

The developer even tore out the shelterbelt. Trees that had stood for a century and managed to survive the Dirty Thirties succumbed to the bulldozer’s blade. In their place are spiffy houses with putting green-like lawns and transplanted saplings that have likely been positioned in accordance with the principles of feng shui.

One thing that hasn’t changed is that Taylor’s Fireworks is still across the road from my old driveway.

I patronized Marv Taylor’s fireworks business several times when I lived south of Brookings. I may have seemed too old for those black snakes and sparklers, but it can be difficult to separate the boy from the man — especially when it comes to fireworks.

Marv passed away some years ago and his son Terry has taken the reins of his family’s fireworks operation. I stopped by to chat with Terry on the opening day of this year’s fireworks sales season.

“Dad began to sell fireworks on this site 68 years ago,” Terry said, adding with a grin, “So that means I started selling fireworks when I was 1 year old.”

I told Terry that I understood that, back in the day, his father had operated a bull collection station at this site.

“That’s right,” Terry replied. “We kept top Holstein bulls here. Dad and his crew would collect semen from the bulls every morning, check it for quality in his lab, put it into ampules, and store the ampules in insulated cannisters that were filled with liquid nitrogen. Dad’s salesmen distributed Holstein semen to dairy farmers across a five-state region.”

 It’s hard for me to grasp how one might make the leap from running a bull collection station to selling fireworks.

“Dad was an entrepreneur,” Terry said. “He was always on the lookout for new business opportunities.”

I mentioned the big changes that had taken place at my former farm.

“It broke my heart when they took out the shelterbelt,” Terry said. “Those trees had been there forever. It’s hard to see something from your childhood disappear like that. I understand that the developer wants to maximize the return on his investment. But it was sad to see the trees go away.”

What are some of your memories regarding fireworks sales?

“When I was a kid, dad had me handle the bikers,” Terry said. “The bikers in this case were the kids who rode their bicycles out here from town. They probably had just a quarter to spend, so they would really take their time. They would pick up something, decide against it, put it back on the shelf and pick up something else. The process could drag out for an agonizingly long time.”

It must have been nice, though, to have access to an unlimited supply of fireworks.

“I had a great childhood,” Terry smiled. “My siblings and I were free-range. We rode our bikes, climbed trees, and shot fireworks, all without adults constantly hovering over us. It was wonderful.”

 I picked out some black snakes and a few sparklers and a youthful member of Terry’s family rang me up. My hope is that Taylor’s Fireworks will be one of the things that will always remain unchanged.                        

 Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.