Boom! Boom!

I am afraid of most of the fireworks sold in tents. I think it's healthy to fear something that can blind you, remove fingers or leave lifelong scars on your body. People who are afraid of fireworks, I contend, use them more safely than some daredevils who profess to have no fear of exploding gunpowder.

This is not a rant against fireworks. What would the Fourth of July be without them?

Fireworks are a rite of passage for young boys who start with firecrackers and move up to more powerful -- and more dangerous -- explosive devices. I would hope they learn how to use fireworks safely. I would hope they would learn fireworks were not invented to terrorize cats. I would hope they would make some -- even the tiniest -- connection with our nation's history, at least enough to know that there isn't a single item that can be purchased at a fireworks stand that even comes close to a bomb bursting in air.

And I would hope adults would take responsibility for teaching their children how to use fireworks safely.

Many of the fireworks that were available in my youth have -- thank goodness -- been banned. Cherry bombs, like the ones we threw into sloughs along the Black River to stun the enormous alligator gars, have been banned. So has using explosives to stun fish.

In my day, every boy started his fireworks career by holding a Black Cat firecracker in a pair of pliers while lighting it and waiting for it to pop. I'm not saying we were the brightest kids in the world.

My favorite of all the fireworks was a hand-held Roman candle that shot balls of colored fire out one after another. As long as you didn't aim at any of the relatives sipping lemonade and sitting on the porch as the hot summer evening slid into darkness, or the field of new-mown hay curing before the baler arrived the next day, Roman candles were pretty safe. Except, of course, for the poorly made ones that blew up in your hands.

One of my most vivid fireworks memories was the huge display mounted during the centennial celebration in my favorite hometown in the Ozarks over yonder. Several men set up the pyrotechnics on a hillside across the highway from the fairgrounds. After dark, the sky was lit was giant bursts of colors, and the earth literally shook with the accompanying booms.

It was a hot, dry year, and sparks from the fireworks soon set the hillside ablaze. For several hours we watched silhouettes of several dozen men, including volunteer firemen, trying to stop the fire as it crept across the ridge where the fireworks had been set off.

Real fires, it turns out, are far more interesting than the artificial red glare of rockets.

My hometown, by the way, is now 155 years old.

Here's my point: Most cities these days have ordinances limiting the kinds of fireworks that can be sold and when they can be set off. These rules are routinely ignored. Most scofflaws realize there aren't enough police to respond to every firecracker complaint. So they set off their explosives -- obtained, I am sure, with hard-earned cash from doing honest chores -- at all hours for days leading up to the Fourth of July.

How many youngsters, do you suppose, will read the Declaration of Independence or hear the story of Fort McHenry or stand with hand over heart while the national anthem is played?

Have a fantastic and safe holiday. Count all your fingers today. Count them again next week. Do whatever is necessary to make sure the numbers are the same.

jsullivan@semissourian.com