A brief history of fireworks with fingers, eyes intact

It's hard to say when Fourth of July fireworks first became part of my world, but I think it was when I was 8 or 9 years old and my city cousin came for a visit and smuggled several packages of Black Cat fire crackers into the bedroom of the farmhouse on Killough Valley in the Ozarks over yonder.

I say "smuggled" because my cousin -- along with everyone else -- knew my mother didn't think fireworks were something kids should play with. As a matter of fact, if it had been up to her there wouldn't have been any fireworks. Period.

My cousin and I, after huddling in the bedroom to come up with an appropriate scheme, followed the creek past the barn and up toward the neighboring farm to get as far away from the house as possible. And then we lit the firecrackers.

At first, we lit them one at a time. Pop. Pop. Pop.

My cousin said we needed a pair of pliers. To set off firecrackers? I asked. Wait and see, he replied.

Back to the tool shed behind the house where we appropriated a pair of pliers. Back up the creek to the fireworks staging area. My cousin held a firecracker with the pliers and lit it. He held on tight. Pop.

Then he handed the pliers to me.

I was hesitant, to say the least. I liked my fingers. I was glad I could see out of both eyes. "Come on," he said. "I dare you."

Well, that did it. I put a firecracker in the jaws of the pliers and lit it.

Nothing.

No pop. No nothing. It was a dud. I was, to tell the truth, very relieved.

To ramp up our fireworks display, my cousin took a whole package of firecrackers and lit the fuse on one of them, throwing the smoking fireworks across the creek.

PopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPop ... went the firecrackers. We thought it was the best part of the show. Soon, all the explosives were gone. We went to the pond and threw rocks at the snapping turtles for the rest of the afternoon. That was almost as exciting as the firecrackers.

Over the next few years our fireworks escalated. We added bottle rockets and roman candles to our arsenal. And cherry bombs.

Cherry bombs were illegal. At least that's what we told each other. Or our parent told us in an effort to keep us from purchasing them or setting them off. My city cousin knew people who knew people who could provide cherry bombs.

It's a wonder we both still have all our fingers and both our eyes.

When our sons were fireworks age, we purchased an assortment of sparklers and bottle rockets, but they were never a big deal.

Then there was the Fourth of July when our neighbor rushed her son to the hospital emergency room. We learned later that he had been setting off a standard variety of fireworks when he put a punk and a roman candle in his pants pocket, thinking the lit end of the punk was sticking out away from his body.

It wasn't.

The roman candle caught fire and did its damage. It was a sobering lesson for all of us. I don't recall that any of us had a big yen for fireworks after that.

I'm a big fan of big, organized fireworks displays like the one planned on Cape Girardeau's riverfront Monday night. I remember the first such display I ever saw.

It was 1955, and my favorite hometown was celebrating its centennial with a week of carnival rides, displays, a pageant, music, airplane rides and, for the finale, a big fireworks show.

Most of the crowd gathered that night at the fairgrounds where there was lots of seating left over from the pageant. Across the highway on a hill were the fireworks. Boom! Bam! Crash! Bang!

We thought it was quite a show, and it got even better when we noticed much of the dry hillside -- there was a drought in progress -- was ablaze.

At first everyone thought the fire was part of the show. Then men from the fairgrounds started running across the highway to help put out the unplanned fire that was racing toward some occupied houses.

Fortunately, no one was seriously hurt. I'm sure there were more fireworks in subsequent years, but I don't remember them.

Whenever I read about disasters at fireworks displays, I am reminded of the grand finale of the centennial celebration. Things got out of hand so fast that it was almost impossible to deal with.

Same with personal fireworks. The time it takes to go from fun to tragedy is a split second.

If you like firecrackers and all that, please be careful.

And enjoy the downtown fireworks display. Bombs bursting in air. Rockets' red glare. They still give proof in the night that our flag is still there.

That's a good thing.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.