When I was a kid, my friends and I always looked forward to the 4th of July.  We began our preparations sometime in May, when we’d get the first sniff of a fireworks supplier.  See, fireworks were (and still are) illegal here in New York.  That didn’t stop us, though; we would not be denied our annual pyromania.

Word would get out that so-and-so had a cousin down in South Carolina who could get him fireworks.  Sometimes, the more well-organized of the black marketeers handed out price lists.  We’d conspire about how many mats of firecrackers we’d order, who would spring for the bottle rockets, and what the hell a 100-shot display looked like.  I think one year, “Mr. Dig-It”, our African-American ice cream man, was selling cherry bombs and M-80’s out of his truck.  Years later, I heard he was busted for selling drugs out of his hot dog truck.  Ah, what a childhood I had…

After receiving our shipment from points south, I’d marvel at the beauty of the packaging.  The mat of firecrackers would have a giant version of the label that adorned the individual packs.  Usually, it was the head of an Indian, although the brand name escapes me.  The next task at hand was concealing our stash from our parents.  Then, we’d schedule firecracker and bottle rocket fights, usually at night, and miraculously, nobody ever lost an eye or a hand.  I can remember several firecrackers blowing up in my hand over the years; the ringing in my ears eventually went away.  M-80’s were a different story; we were much more careful with their handling.  I can only remember one incident where one was thrown into a neighbor’s pool.  The resulting geyser of water from the explosion is a fond memory to this day.

Our sadistic sides came to light during the great gypsy moth infestation of the late ’70’s.  We’d gather every caterpillar that we could find crawling on the oak trees, and pack them tightly in an empty coffee can.  We’d then twist several firecrackers together by their fuses, and put the can upside down over the waiting explosives.  The resulting explosion sent the can skyward, along with the green guts of the poor caterpillars.  Our own gross little way of culling the gypsy moth population.  We’d also break open any duds, and pour the unspent powder into a big pile.  We’d then light up the “genie”, and cough from the resulting smoke.

The world of my kids is a much more sanitized version of the childhood that I enjoyed.  We’ll still go for a stroll around the neighborhood on the 4th, taking in the still-illegal rocket launches.  But I don’t see many kids following in my generation’s footsteps; the pyrotechnics seem to be dominated by my age group.  At least I didn’t see any missing fingers.

As for me, I gave up blowing things up several years ago.  I’m more content now with practicing my primitive firestarting if I need a pyromaniacal fix.  And while this post had nothing to do with either personal finance, career advice, or self-reliance, but it was nice to reminisce about the summers of my youth.

Happy Independence Day, everyone!  Please don’t blow any fingers off.

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