Fireworks

One of my favorite holidays growing up was Independence Day (you know, July 4th?). It wasn’t because I was insanely patriotic or overly excited to be celebrating America’s birthday. It was because of gunpowder. At no other time of year could you expect to see young children gleefully playing with matches, lighters and highly combustible compounds.

Going to a fireworks stand was like going to a candy store. All the brightly colored packaging, Chinese characters, and dramatic names for tightly rolled paper, sticks and fuses. Ladyfingers. Missile Batteries. Bottle Rockets. Smoke Grenades. It was a boyhood dream come true. The idea was to build an arsenal that would be sure to shock and awe the neighbors.

Being young boys, my brother and I didn’t quite practice the safe and proper use of fireworks and soon learned to deny such pavement pleasures like Jumping Jacks and Snakes for something more ‘long range’ like the bottle rocket. In those days surrounding the fourth we recruited scores of neighborhood boys to line up for short range skirmishes. Looking back now, it was miraculous that none of us were seriously hurt. The worst I got was a bottle rocket to my face and, thankfully, no scars.

Now that I have two boys of my own there’s a bit of an understanding when it comes to fireworks. It is no longer legal to shoot bottle rockets (probably for the best) so we only purchase the ‘S’ class variety – sparklers, snaps, smoke balls and snakes. I guess these could still be considered ‘gateway fireworks’ to the more destructive variety, but the worst we can expect now is a few unsightly scorch marks on the pavement rather than exploded or burned fingers. Knowing that they’re wired to pursue more creative ways to use explosives as they get older I make it a point to never talk to them about ‘the war’ and my near brush with danger.