In those days, some 58 years ago, there were few laws governing the sale, possession and ignition of fireworks. The American Legion, Boy Scouts and civic groups sponsored ramshackle booths thrown up on vacant lots from which fireworks could be sold. It was considered unpatriotic to interfere with such enterprises.
Incidentally, it was traditional in the deep South to light off fire works at Christmas!
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We firefighters took the extra emergencies in stride. Most of the fires were minor. But sometimes a roof fire forced us to ladder a building to extinguish a blaze caused by an unguided rocket.
Still, when the Fourth rolls around, I'm reminded of the excitement it inspired in my youth.
In the 1930s there was virtually no limits on the design of firecrackers. The list of explosive devices was extensive.
The ordnance inventory began innocently enough with tiny "Lady Fingers." These tiny poppers were for the little kids. But we more mature guys, at the age of 8 or 10, demanded more powerful weapons. The tin cans had to be blown at least 50 feet into the air.
The "torpedo" was about the size of a golf ball. It was encrusted with explosive caps that served as the detonator. The teaspoon of gunpowder therein caused a terrific explosion. The flash blinded us momentarily, but the ringing in our ears lasted for a week.
The '76 Salute was about the size of a shotgun shell and just about as dangerous. But the "Cherry Bomb" was a bomb. It was a miniature stick of dynamite. Sadly, it accounted for the loss of several small fingers and a few eyes, too.
A fellow fireman displayed a hand with one-and-a-half missing fingers. He'd foolishly held a cherry bomb too long.
Even so, we kids harassed our parents to allow us to buy the perilous nitro. I don't recall seeing firecrackers that were made by American companies: China obliged.
Tons of fireworks arrived on our shores shipped from Cathay. I can still see the gaudily colored tissue paper packets. They were covered in unintelligible Chinese writing. But the pictures on the packages told us the degree of power they possessed.
A tiger denoted pretty powerful stuff. But a dragon warned us to light the fuse and run.
Well into the racket-filled season, we kids got bored with the conventional blasts. We got creative. We made our own "depth bombs." A torpedo or cherry bomb dipped in hot wax, for water-proofing, served our nefarious plans, admirably.
We then looked for an unguarded fishpond. The blast sent up an exciting geyser of water a good three feet into the air. We guiltily marveled at the poor little goldfish who rose to the surface and floated on their side; their bladder's burst by the force of the submarine detonation.
Speaking of unfortunate creatures: dogs and cat's sensitive ears caused them terribly distress as they threaded their way through the battlefield. One unfortunate cat, that had failed to find sanctuary under a house, was captured by a young villain (not me) and suffered having a firecracker taped to its tail, then ignited.
I had to serve on the ambulance, as a rookie. Along with a wide variety of ghastly traumas, I had to deal with injuries caused by fireworks.
I can't forget a little girl of about 7 who'd suffered an injury to her face caused by a firecracker thrown at her by a thoughtless brother.
"It won't leave a scar will it?" she plaintively asked me.
"No!," I assured her, "the doctor will fix it so's you won't even see it,"
By contrast, a young man of about 8 years of age with a similar injury, sought a guarantee of a different kind.
"I want it to make a scar that's big and red. Then I can scare people with it on Halloween."
In my maturity, I leave the detonation of fireworks to the professionals.
But, by godfrey, on the next Fourth I'll probably get the urge to toss a depth charge into someone's fish pond.
Ted Courtright is an active member of Senior Coastsiders and writes occasionally for the Review.
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