When I was a kid, I remember liking the 4th of July just as much as Christmas. And it was because of one very good reason: Fireworks. 

My parents would have us crush aluminum cans for a couple months beforehand, and the money from recycling those cans would be what my brother, Cayo, and I could spend on fireworks. I still don’t know the real reason for crushing the cans, though my Mom led us to believe the cans got heavier when they were compacted. Uh, physics would say NO.

Back in the 1970s, LA County allowed fireworks to be lit on private property. So in the days leading up to el Cuatro de Julio, we’d go to San Fernando and stop at one of several Red Devil or Freedom Fireworks stands in the area. Quite honestly, the feeling of anticipation was similar to what I get today when I’m going into a fantasy baseball or football draft. Just the possibilities, and looking at all the boxes filled with fireworks looked so tempting. I could have been staring at a vault of money and not been as excited. Though in the final analysis, our money was literally going up in smoke.

When we’d get the boxes of fireworks home, I’d stare at them and remember if I’d had that firework the previous year. I’d even plan out what order I’d light them, saving the largest fireworks for the grand finale. The sparklers and the snakes, I’d give them to the little kids to play with. Favorites that I remember were Piccolo Petes and the spinning roses that bounced all over the pavement and streets. For some reason, another memory that comes to me as I write this, however many nights that we purchased my box of fireworks before the 4th, I would sleep with that highly explosive box underneath my bed. As I recall this, the ’70s feels like a very long time ago.

But the biggest, most dangerous fun came from Tio Chava, whose full name is Salvador Torres. He would go to Tijuana every year a few weeks before the 4th. He’d come back with bricks of firecrackers and hundreds of skyrockets. He’d sell them at General Motors to other fellow employees on the assembly line, but he’d also leave some for us nieces and nephews to buy from him. I remember it was a quarter for a pack of 25 firecrackers and $1 for a dozen skyrockets. He’d always give me some extra. What a little side business he built for himself during breaks and after work hours.  

The 4th itself would be an incredible waiting game. I remember one year, getting up and there was a lingering June gloom in the morning. A soft day, as the Irish would say. I really wanted to set off a firecracker, so I just lit one in the driveway before 8 a.m. on what was a calm, quiet morning. The bang was incredibly loud and bounced off all the concrete. Nice start to the day.

Even playing with my cousins and all family members at Abuelita and Abuelito’s home during the day, eating American foods like hamburgers and hot dogs mixed in with carne asada, arroz y frijoles, it was all warm-up act to the main event that would begin after sundown.

Waiting for it to be dark enough for my parents to give the go-ahead was interminable. We’d set off some firecrackers here and there, occasionally getting scolded if we set or threw them too close to members of La Familia. I got pretty good at holding the lit firecracker and then releasing it so that it would explode mid-air. Only a couple times did I wait too long and the firecracker actually went off in my hand, though all the damage was temporary numbness in my fingers. Oh, to be young and dumb.

A highlight that I remember creating happened after I hollowed out an actual egg then creating confetti with a hole puncher. I put that confetti into the egg and topped it with a piece of paper with a hole punched into the end with a pencil. When the time was right after the homemade fireworks shows started, I inserted a firecracker into that pencil hole. I remember this more than 40 years later like it was yesterday. I lit the fuse and waited for the right moment until I threw it as high up in the air, like I was playing long toss straight up. The egg hit its apex and exploded, causing confetti to rain all over the street like it was New Year’s Eve on Times Square. I was as proud of myself as if I’d just knocked in the game-winning run in Little League.

These shows would last only about an hour. We just kept trying to one-up one another with each explosion until or our boxes were depleted. The closing firework always had to be special, as I knew that there would be no more explosions for another year. I was too young and filled with adrenaline to really comprehend this, much less to understand the dangers that I held in my hand with each lit fuse. 

When everyone as far as we could see were done with their fireworks, a haze of smoke hovered over Carl Street, where we lived. The sulfuric smell is something that I can recognize to this day, though it’s quite rare when I do smell it. The many childhood memories that came with it.

Sometime in the early 1980s all private fireworks were outlawed in LA County. I was into my teenage years, and tried to convince myself that I’d outgrown having to light fuses to have fun on this holiday. Though there would be a rush if someone in my familia would sneak in and light a few fireworks from Lancaster or other counties where they were still legal. 

Looking back, man, I feel so lucky that the worst I had happen to me were a few numb fingers here and there. I would hear how fires were set and major damage caused by these private shows. Time and experience have taught us to avoid these dangers and let the professionals create these incredible displays.

There is still something youthful and a little visceral in the fascination with fire and watching explosions from those days. Today, when I see fireworks shows after Dodger games or elsewhere, I flash back to those memories shared with my brother and cousins. I’m glad I had that time and none of us caused any damage. 

And I’m glad to leave those days behind and let the professionals put on shows for us, in a safe and sane manner.