A Brooklyn Fourth of July
Growing up in Brooklyn, I remember two distinct, and very dangerous, memories of the Fourth of July.
We lived in my grandmother’s brownstone in Bensonhurst that opened up to a common alleyway. On normal days, our parents parked their cars there. The areas between the cars were where us kids played.
Except on the Fourth of July.
Then, all the cars were removed, and each family set up tables and barbecues and basically had a block party in the alleyway.
At night, the fireworks came out to play.
I was maybe four years old when someone stood me on a table and put a Roman candle in my hands. After a quick intro on how not to die, they lit the candle and thrust my hands into the air.
The first ball of colored light shot out the front. The second and third followed. The fourth one, however, had a mind of its own.
It shot straight into my right eye.
What happened next was a blur.
Strong hands lifted me up off the table and into the nearest kitchen. Then a stream of cold water from the faucet splashed across my face and extinguished the sparkle in my eye.
Once the excitement was over, someone shoved a cold can of grape soda into my hands, and I sat under a table outside to keep me safe and out of the way.
What were the odds I’d be attacked by fireworks a second time that night?
Guess the adults didn’t want to find out.
The next event happened a few years later, and it’s been confirmed by my brother Joe, who remembers it as well.
We lived on 84th Street. A really wide street. On the Fourth of July, I remember they closed the street to traffic.
People lined the sidewalks in anticipation of what was about to happen next.
Just after dusk, a truck rambled down the empty street. It came to a stop just in front of the church and cemetery across from our brownstone.
With any luck, we wouldn't need either before the night was through.
Slowly, the bed of the dump truck rose until hundreds of pounds of fireworks rolled out onto our street.
Cautiously, several of the fathers poured gasoline onto the pile. Shortly after that, another brave soul tossed a match onto the concoction and ran back.
From a safe distance, we watched as the mountain of gunpowder exploded and rained fireworks in all directions.
One explosion after another.
Just when you thought it was over, another starburst escaped the flames.
Smoke rose up into the night sky. Every dog in the neighborhood barked for it to stop.
I don’t believe anyone was ever hurt. However, I was a pretty young kid with a boy’s faulty memory.
The next morning, my brother, his friend Ralphie, and a handful of kids in the neighborhood scavenged all the un-exploded fireworks they could find.
Not sure how they got away with it. Maybe they were able to get permits to do such a demonstration. Or maybe the police were in on it.
My own thoughts?
There was an Italian-American Club at the end of our street. The rumors in Brooklyn at the time were that it was started by a very famous gangster.
Was it true? Were those two things connected?
I don’t know, and I would never be stupid enough to find out.
I am just happy to have survived a lifetime of Fourth of Julys with both my eyes and fingers intact.
