Note: A prologue from my upcoming autobiography, Life’s Too Short to Smoke Cheap Cigars (Or to Drink Cheap Whiskey.)
Boom!
I mean, who doesn’t love great fireworks shows?
In the heartland where I grew up, fireworks were popular, but the fireworks year really centered around the Fourth of July. The local volunteer fire departments or, in the larger towns, the municipal fire departments usually oversaw things, but everybody looked forward to the shows and even little, sparsely populated Allamakee County managed some impressive ones, held on the county fairgrounds at Waukon.
The problem was one of patience. Most of us local kids had a hard time waiting for the Fourth. One could purchase fireworks in Iowa in those years, but thanks to state laws on the matter one was limited to some pretty weak sauce: Sparklers, snakes, poppers, that sort of thing.
Fortunately, there was another option: Missouri.
By Way of Background:
In those halcyon days of the Seventies, a common event was the summer convoy to Missouri to buy fireworks. Once you crossed the border, a plethora of fireworks shops were immediately to hand, and it was a wonder to walk in and see the cornucopia of BOOM on offer: Bottle rockets, Black Cats, M-80s, even the big professional-grade mortar-fired stuff. In those days, when you could still buy something for a dollar, it wasn’t uncommon for folks to drop a couple hundred bucks on fireworks.
And, of course, some people recouped a good part of that cost by “informally” reselling the goods up in Iowa, to those who hadn’t made the pilgrimage. In our pre-driver’s license days, that’s generally how we obtained the good stuff, fireworks-wise. There was always someone’s older brother, or cousin, or just some local guy that everybody knew had a stash. We bought our M-80s, bottle rockets and Roman candles from them, and since the Allamakee County Sheriff’s Department was notoriously blasé about enforcing fireworks laws as long as there were no resulting traumatic amputations or structural fires, we all had our fun and went on with our lives.
Demand will, after all, always find a supply. That’s an immutable law of the universe.
But sometimes the supply faltered.
And Then:
The original M-80.
The supply line being tenuous, sometimes we had to improvise.
From the time I was twelve or thirteen I was messing about with black-powder guns, and so generally had a good supply of black powder on hand. I did a lot of shooting, so the Old Man was never particularly surprised when I announced my supply was almost run out and that I’d have to go to town with him on his next trip to buy a few cans. I’m sure he was aware that I was diverting some of that supply to non-firearms-related purposes, as he even witnessed a couple of those trials, but as long as I managed to keep my fingers, toes, and other body parts in place, he didn’t seem too concerned.
Boys will be boys, after all.
The key to a really good bang is, of course, confinement, as I discover one afternoon after helping the Old Man deal with pocket gophers by pouring gasoline down their holes. On a whim (and when the Old Man wasn’t looking) I decided to take the eradication effort a step further by dropping a lit match down one of the gopher holes. The resulting whump was pretty impressive, as lighting gasoline fumes in the enclosed confines of a gopher hole makes a pretty good impact on a fourteen-year-old who did not step back far enough. When my ears stopped ringing and I was able to sit up, I saw the Old Man standing over me, a stern look on his face.
“Learn something?” he asked, his usual taciturnity on display. The gopher was unavailable for comment.
I nodded. But somewhere in my mind, my thoughts were already turning towards how best to use this new knowledge safely – or at least, less dangerously.
In another installment I have already described destroying a small fleet of model ships by filling them with black powder, adding a fuse, and sailing them down the creek with fuse lit. That was just a preliminary, one that I felt comfortable enough to try with my parent’s watching. Leave it to my old al Jon, my misfit friend and partner in poor judgement, to suggest taking it to the next level.
One day as I was digging a hole in the ditch down the road from the house to… well, that’s a story for another time, but suffice it to say I was out in the July afternoon sunshine digging a hole when Jon showed up on his ancient bicycle, carrying a large burlap bag of something that clanked.
“Hey,” he asked, climbing down from the elderly coaster bike. “You still have some black powder around, right?”
“Sure.” I laid the shovel aside. “What you got there?”
Jon opened the bag. “My Pa was doing some plumbing work on the propane tank,” Jon explained. “This here’s some leftover stuff.” ‘This here’ turned out to be three roughly four-inch segments of black iron pipe and a number of matching black iron caps. “I watched Pa threading the ends of some of the pipe for the caps, so when he went in for lunch, I went ahead and threaded these. See?” He took a cap and easily threaded it on to one of the sections of pipe.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “So?”
If you’re already thinking ahead and telling yourself “Pipe bomb,” you aren’t wrong.
“I bet if we filled these up with black powder, then stick a fuse in, they’ll make a hell of a bang! Want to try it?”
Of course, the answer to that was “Yes!” And so, later that day, we had assembled three improvised explosives that would have done justice to anyone who studied the Army’s Technical Manual TM 31-210 (Improvised Munitions Handbook).
“You know,” Jon said when we were ready for the first test, “we might want to be behind something when this goes off.” That note of caution coming from my notoriously reckless friend was well-taken, so we cut the fuse on the first ‘firework’ at about two feet, placed it carefully on a stump, then ran off about thirty yards and hunkered down behind a fallen log.
The resulting BOOM would have done a stick of dynamite credit. We stood up, looked at the cloud of smoke drifting away from the stump – then we looked down.
“Uh, Jon,” I said. “Look there.”
“Urk.” There was about a three-inch strip of black iron embedded in the fallen log we’d hidden behind.
On examination, the stump we’d placed our ‘firework’ on was shredded. Pieces of scrap iron were scattered generously about. After a brief conference, we tossed the remaining pieces of iron pipe in the creek and called an end to that particular bit of experimentation.
It was another hobby, though, that would end up producing the most interesting results in the improvised fireworks race.
This One Time:
Model rocket engines.
As we got older and started obtaining the coveted driver’s licenses, we began exploring options for shooting off fireworks from a moving vehicle. Cars and trucks in those days had metal rain gutters over the doors, and a common practice was to light a bottle rocket, place it in the rain gutter, and let it fly, assuming the car or truck was pointed in the proper direction. One could also just light the rocket and toss it out the window, counting on the aerodynamics of the trailing stick to point it more or less in the direction of travel, but results from both of these practices was somewhat… mixed.
Then an old acquaintance of mine, a guy called “Tricky Rick” Osborne, came up with a better idea.
“Tricky Rick,” mind, was a guy who once welded an improvised roll cage into a ’67 Mustang and took it out on the state highway to see how many times he could roll it. (He managed five complete flips, even landing back on the tires.) He came out of that trial with a totaled Mustang, a broken collarbone, a dislocated shoulder, a broken radius, and several cracked ribs to go along with various scrapes and contusions, but his fundamental drive for invention and experimentation was undeterred.
Around this time model rocketry was becoming popular with some of the guys. The high school even had a model rocketry club, of which our pal Albert Hedley was one of the founding members. One Sunday, a bunch of us had gathered in a pasture to watch Albert launching a rocket of his own design when I noticed Tricky Rick examining something.
“What you got there, Tricky?” I asked.
“One of Albert’s model rocket engines.” Just then the rocket launched, fired by an electric trigger controlled by a small control box Albert had is his hand. We watched as the rocket ascended until it was almost out of sight, at which point a small pop let us know that the bursting charge had expelled the rocket’s parachute, allowing it to make a soft landing.
“Well, ain’t that something,” Rick said softly. “Hey, Albert! Where can I buy me some of this stuff?”
Tricky Rick didn’t seem like the type for model rocketry, but I knew better than to ask questions.
A few weeks later, on a fine August Saturday, a bunch of us were hanging out in the Pamida parking lot in town when Tricky Rick showed up. He had replaced the wrecked ’67 Mustang with a more dilapidated 1964 Ford F-100 pickup, and as we discovered, he had since been making some modifications to that vehicle as well.
“Hey guys,” he called, dismounting the old pickup. “Come check this out.”
‘This’ was a big Estes model rocket engine, with two feet of ¼” wooden dowel taped to it and a crude nose cone made from what appeared to be tin from a soup can. “Tested a couple of these already,” Tricky Rick informed us. “Got a couple of ounces of black powder in that nose cone. The charge that’s supposed to pop out the parachute sets it off, just fine.”
“OK,” my pal Dave said, “so you made a big bottle rocket. So what?”
“Look here.” Tricky Rick opened the hood of his pickup.
“What the hell,” Dave said, leaning over. I pushed my way in for a look. It was curious; under the hood, in the capacious engine compartment, two lengths of galvanized steel conduit were attached to the wheel wells on either side of the straight-six engine. A moment’s examination revealed a threaded cap on the back of each length of pipe, with a small slot cut in to allow passage of some cheap Radio Shack wiring. Another moment’s examination revealed that the forward end of the tubes protruded through the grille of the vehicle.
Not the actual pickup, but much the same.
“What the hell,” Dave continued. “Do you mean to say… I mean, is this…”
“Yep,” Tricky Rick grinned. “It’s a rocket launcher.”
Like many of our dads, Albert’s father had served in World War 2 and had passed on a lot of the terminology. “You put a Screaming Meemie in your truck?”
“Sure. Check this out.” Rick walked around and opened the driver’s door. “Look there, under the ashtray.” A small, cheap Radio Shack sheet-metal panel was installed under the dash, with a toggle switch on either side and a big red button in the middle. “One switch for each side,” Rick chortled with glee. “Can set off either side, or both at once. Uses them funny little electric igniters like Albert had. Turns out the truck’s 12-volt system fires ‘em right up.”
Nobody ever said creativity and insanity were mutually exclusive, and Tricky Rick was probably a good illustration of that, but nevertheless, a bunch of us piled in the back of Rick’s pickup to take a test run to evaluate the practical application.
“Most of the townie assholes are hanging around down on Water Street,” Tricky Rick called out as he started the truck up and put it in gear. “Let’s go shake ‘em up some.”
We proceeded thither, then, and sure enough, the moment we turned onto Water Street, there was a 1974 Camaro containing two members of the local townie sports clique, idling at a red light. Tricky Rick had tasked Albert Hedley as Weapons Officer for the day, and as he turned, barked orders: “Hit the left-hand switch. Ready… Ready… Fire!” Albert stabbed the red button.
It’s important to note that Tricky Rick’s creativity had not extended so far as a heads-up display, or indeed any other kind of aiming device. The rockets performed – oh, they performed perfectly. One bounced off the Camaro’s windshield and went screeching almost straight up, where it produced a pretty impressive detonation about a hundred feet above the tops of the buildings along Water Street. The other flew in the open door of the Corner Bar, bounced off a table, and spun around on the floor until a quick-thinking patron doused it with a pitcher of beer.
Tricky Rick hit the gas. We careered down Water Street. Behind us, the Camaro hung a quick U-turn and started off in pursuit. I was mildly disappointed to find Tricky Rick had not installed a caltrops dispenser or some other such gadgetry to discourage pursuit, but after a block or so the two guys in the Camaro got close enough to realize that there were eight of us in the pickup, and that the odds were stacked against them in a scrap, so they abandoned the chase.
“Tricky!” Dave called through the rear window of the truck cab. “I’m not so sure this is a good idea!”
“Don’t worry!” Tricky Rick called back. “It’ll be fine! Just got two more rockets left to try out.”
We left Water Street and roared out of downtown, heading for the Upper Iowa river bridge and the college. “Look,” Rick called, “Look at that asshole’s shiny truck! Bet that guy’s never been off a paved road.” Ahead of us was a beautifully clean, new Chevrolet half-ton that we knew belonged to another of the areas’ notorious townies. “OK, Albert,” Tricky Rick barked. “I’m lined up. Hit the right-hand switch. FIRE!”
Both rockets flew straight and true this time, but again, Rick’s aim was off. One rocket bounced off the new Chevy’s driver’s side rear-view mirror and deflected downward, where it was crushed under a tire. The other missed to the left and screamed down the street, narrowly missing a tall figure in khaki before exploding in the used-car lot.
The figure in khaki, of course, being Officer Messerschmitt of the Decorah Police Department.
I could hear Dave let out an audible groan. He had been, up to that very moment, dating Officer Messerschmitt’s daughter. Tricky Rick never considered making a run for it. The officer knew us all; there was no escape. When Officer Messerschmitt stepped into the street and held up his hand, Tricky Rick obligingly brought the truck to a halt and surrendered to the inevitable.
All of us but Tricky Rick got off with being hauled into the local police station, given a damn good talking to, and tossed unceremoniously out on the sidewalk. Tricky Rick spent the night in the hoosegow, and when his brilliantly angry father came to get him in the morning, was forced to dismantle the Screaming Meemie system under police supervision.
Thus, ended our experiments with vehicle-launched rockets.
These Days…
I still enjoy a good fireworks show. When I’ve had occasion to be in Japan during a local festival, I’ve seen some incredible fireworks displays. I have it on good authority that you can find some great shows in China, too. In that part of the world folks just love them some fireworks. And our fireworks tradition in the family did continue, although with fewer improvised fireworks. In one banner year, Mrs. Animal and I made a trip to Wyoming, dumped about five hundred bucks into fireworks, then went back to Allamakee County for the Fourth of July where my brother and I organized and executed a great fireworks display for the whole family – with all eardrums and limbs remaining intact.
Here in the Great Land, one can get some pretty good fireworks. Stuff like Roman candles and Black Cats are available, and not far from us, down the Parks Highway at Big Lake, is the famous Gorilla Fireworks, which has a fine assortment for sale. The Matanuska-Susitna Borough technically disallows fireworks but in typical Alaskan fashion, I’m told that rule is regularly ignored.
But the Fourth of July options are muted by the fact that… well, it doesn’t really get dark that time of year. Even here, quite a way south of the Arctic Circle, the sun is up until a little after eleven-thirty, and the sky never really gets dark, so the fun of a really good fireworks show is muted.
So, instead, perhaps a good New Year’s Eve show is in order. That time of year it’s dark by four in the afternoon. Added bonus: No fire danger. Not with two feet of snow on the ground.
Americans in general love them some fireworks. While I’m generally not in favor of government regulating such things, at this point in time when I’m older and (presumably) wiser, I’m willing to admit that a car-mounted rocket launcher probably wasn’t the best idea, and maybe good old common sense should have warned us of that. Your mileage may vary.
Reminiscing the other day I realized, I’ve never bought fireworks. I’ve set off fireworks (even dangerously aimed them at friends) but I’ve never bought any. After catching on fire several times I no longer do that sort of thing, but it was a kind of realization that I never bought any.
Phantom fireworks sent me a flyer the end of last week.
I’m not planning on buying any.
I think I’ll be doing a show this year. Need to stock up a bit
Ive seen some impressive shows done by just everyday people, up to including filming from a drone for later consumption.
My dad and his old partner Jack held a pig roast every fourth for about 25 years, complete with a shitkicker band and firework display, until they changed some laws (I think it was part 9/11 and part a couple years in a row with some firework related fatalities around the sate) Jack would drive to Indiana and load up on 3,5, and 6″ mortars, we’d bury about a dozen tubes to launch them and had racks for smaller salutes and the finale. People claimed that the display rivaled the one the county put on a the fairground.
Dad and Jack sound like mighty fine peoples and that is what we need more of.
I am thinking no fireworks other than watching this year but a big day of smoking lots of meats and some form of bbq sauce to go with it.
It’s been about 8 or 9 years since the last one. I kinda miss it, but it was also a lot of work hosting a couple hundred people. Sitting on my ass all day drinking beer (something frowned upon when you were part of the firework crew) grilling burgers and brats with a dozen or so friends is enough these days.
I am with you on that one, unless others bring their own smokers its going to be for about 15 people. Beyond that I just disappear outside and sit in the heat drinking beer in front of the the smoker that needs no tending, but that isn’t what I tell the wife.
I did my first real show two years ago at my father-in-law’s property in eastern PA. I actually surprised myself how well it went off. I did a lot of timed fuses and used a remote firing system so that I didn’t have to risk being close to the battery when lighting it off. Plus I actually got to enjoy the show. I think I probably shot off close to $600 that day, but it was worth it to see how much my nieces and nephews enjoyed it. Got a lot of compliments from the adults, too.
I remember when fireworks beyond sparklers were illegal in Pennsylvania.
Didn’t matter: People would drive as far as North Carolina to obtain them and bring them back.
I haven’t fired off any for a couple years now. I might get a few things and then just wander around enjoying other peoples’ shows in the subdivision. I don’t really feel like cleaning up a mess.
The only time I’ve bought fireworks was to buy Sparklers to smuggle into Massachusetts for an Independence Day celebration I was going to.
All fireworks, including sparklers, are illegal in Massachusetts.
We figured given the location of the celebration that Sparklers would be the easiest and least likely to get us caught.
Quite the story, Animal.
I toyed around with model rockets when I was young. I thought my gf would enjoy the crafting bit and I bought her a kit a couple years ago. Everything is still in the box.
Model rockets went the way of my chemistry set, I was too afraid to waste them, so I never used them.
We did a lot of things with Estes engines,
Tha Atomic Dumptruck was one good one,
Great story Animal, makes my lunch a little nicer,
The best part about the cold war was that Model Rocketry was a required class in junior high. Fun with Estes engines.
Great read. This reminded me of the 10 or so times I would’ve been locked up in today’s world from our friend group’s experiments with homemade (and purchased 1/4 sticks) fireworks. Looking back, the danger of both personal injury and potential police interactions are what made those events so exhilarating!
I too still love to light some off, they are just more reliable now (being purchased from a store).
Thanks for the great story!
Geez Animal, you’d be in Guantanamo for that stuff these days. Good times.
I want to read this but am working roght now. However, will go briefly OT to say that I just observed 2 police cruisers head back the cul-de-sac that starts across the street from my house.
This is not uncommon. I have no idea why they go there, and never hear any fuss. But this happens frequently enough that I wonder what’s going on. About 2 years ago, I even confronted a strange vehicle parked in my driveway and they told me they were a provate investigator watching for something back that street. I called the PD and confirmed. I told them to call me first before ever authorizing surveillance from my property again.
Drugs? Sounds like drugs.
Sounds like drugs for sure…maybe the cops run a train on the housewife at lunch time though…
But multiple times over several years? Maybe whoever it is is smart enough not to get caught….but maybe OBE’s assessment below is more on the mark.
Of course it could be a serial domestic abuser/accuser, I guess.
Yeah, domestic issues came to mind, but these days they dont last several years. Either somebody escalates enough to end up in prison or they divorce.
Unpacking and dumping the innards of Piccolo Pete’s into cigar tubes made for much more fun than them just whistling. Mailboxes never stood a chance!
When I was a teenager, that kind of thing got you on the “gonna shoot up the school” watchlist.
“What the hell,” Dave continued. “Do you mean to say… I mean, is this…”
“Yep,” Tricky Rick grinned. “It’s a rocket launcher.”
Like many of our dads, Albert’s father had served in World War 2 and had passed on a lot of the terminology. “You put a Screaming Meemie in your truck?”
There were times when driving in Boston rush hour traffic that I wanted such a thing in my car.
Estes Model Rocket history. I might have posted it before.
As the Lil Rona Panic is dying down, some NH communities will have fireworks for Independence Day. Of course, with fireworks largely being regulated at the municipal level and being legal at the state level, I expect plenty of impromptu displays.
Triviia, I lived in Penrose CO. for a few years, drove past the factory on the way to work every day
Re celebrating Independence Day:
Not feeling the love.
“Laura and Carrie knew the Declaration by heart, of course, but it gave them a solemn, glorious feeling to hear the words. They took hold of hands and stood listening in the solemnly listening crowd. The Stars and Stripes were fluttering bright against the thin, clear blue overhead, and their minds were saying the words before their ears heard them.”
Little Town on the Prairie. My favorite of the LH books.
Hm. I think that was actually from The Long Winter.
No, you were right the first time – LTOTP was the source, at least per MY source: https://www.gradesaver.com/little-town-on-the-prairie/study-guide/quotes
I had such a boring youth in comparison. And that’s probably OK.
Beautiful.
Too pricey for me though.
Fireworks has always been limited here, as long I can remember, to non-flying type. And illegal bottle rockets were always popular. I’d be setting them off now but my wife doesn’t like fireworks at home. Shows are ok.
OT – her English accent is amazing.
青森弁を英語で解説！
Friend and I were discussing Aomori dialect last night. She’s watching an NHK drama set in Aomori and it has Japanese subtitles in standard Japanese which isn’t uncommon for TV to do.
Nice, thanks!
I was listening to that and it just hit me (I’m slow!) looking at the kanji that it’s ao mori and thought is it really blue forest? Sure enough.
(Or maybe it’s that shade of blue that’s almost green but is still blue like the ao traffic lights)
Yeah, that’s the Japanese green/blue perception thing.
I just memorize the contexts where each is used…
Great story. Brings me back to the days when my school friends and I used to take our bb guns and shoot bottle rockets out of them at each other on a gravel road. Things would really get interesting when a few packs of Saturn missiles were lit then turned over on its side. And of course, firecrackers tied together four five at a time were our little grenades…how none of us ever suffered a major injury is beyond me.
We drive north just outside of Vegas to Red Man Land and get them on a highway-side gas station that sells all the good stuff. Though, we used to have a lot of open area to launch em, houses in the past year have exploded in growth and its getting harder and harder to do that.
Reminds me, need to check the dog’s CBD situation.
A couple of my squirrely friends still make it a point to procure quarter sticks of dynamite for the 4th. Those babies going off make my butthole clench even standing a hundred yards away.
Shit. That was for Fourscore.
One time we dug a hole with a post hole digger, as deep as we could, 5 ft-6 ft. My Dad stuck 8 sticks of 40 %, touched it off. We had an instant watering hole for the cattle, had to put a fence around a couple sides that were too steep for the cows. Us kids were grateful, no more having to pump water or take them across the road to the river every day.
Bulldozer in a knapsack, ha!
m1000s were a favorite thing to bring back from Mexico when you used to be able to just walk the bridge across and get from a street vendor.
That sounds awesome.
Yeah, I’ve retired from buying my own stuff now and just watch the neighborhoods light up. In KC we have an ordinance against lighting certain sized fireworks that’s universally ignored.
Great story, Animal. We never had access to that quality of pyrotechnics but I remember as a 10 year old (and a few later years) sending off to some place near Chicago for 1600 firecrackers (80 20 packs) for $2.75, postage paid (for inch and a hafers). Summer vacation was about 80 days, I’d ration them out a pack a day. A lot of tin cans opened up, inserts to sunfish mouths, ant hills were all experimental targets. Occasionally there would some bigger ones included , maybe Black Cats, I don’t remember.
Later, we inherited about 3/4 case of dynamite, fuse and caps. My dad showed us how to use the contraband safely and he would make his version of a giant firecracker. One Fourth we set off 3 timed sticks 3 times. O’course as a teenager the dynamite was supposed to be off limits. I got a hold of some electric caps and went fishing, using the tractor battery for power. Fun days.
Farm boys made their own fun in the ’50s but a little different than the Allamakee gang.
Thanks for the trip down Memory Lane, Animal. A personal inventory shows all fingers are still attached.
One year, some friends and I drove to Indiana to get fireworks (can’t buy the good stuff here in Ohio). We invited a buddy of ours who is from India to come join the revelry. It was his first 4th of July celebration, if I recall. He didn’t seem to impressed with any of it. Someone asked him why, and he said that in India, there is little to no regulation of fireworks, so you can get all kinds of crazy dangerous awesome explodey shit over there. You can basically get a near-professional grade fireworks setup over the counter.
I thought most folks in the greater Dayton area just went to TNT on Union Road and claimed they were taking the stuff out of state. ?
My own experiments in making a bicycle-mounted rocket launcher ended when, at age 11, I accidentally fired a 1/4A model rocket engine in my basement.
Personally, I blame Spy Hunter. Also, having a Father who was working with a bunch of functional pyromaniacs down at Harvey Point, and thus considered teaching his eldest son to make Nitrogen Triodide to fall into the category of ‘involved parenting’.
Fun times. I’m trying to imagine what would happen today with the same antics.
Meaning, the court date, the fines, the possible jail time, etc.
One of the guys I knew in college got charged with a hate crime for slashing a blow up Santa yard decoration with a knife. He was an asshole, no question, but juvenile assholery is being waaaaay overprosecuted these days.
Allowing juveniles to test the limits of what is acceptable in society is out; Daddy Government is in.
We just offload our spanking from the parent’s hand to the government’s boot nowadays.
That’s the thing, right? 40 years ago, petty vandalism required the kid to do restitution to pay off the damage. Often, the restitution was intentionally difficult or degrading.
These days, now that real community is a thing of the past, petty vandalism is seen as a troubling waypoint for a burgeoning antisocial deviant. They must be punished to prevent their menacing deviancy from destroying the “community”.
That is why, in two or so years once the teens are moved out, if it is even viable, we will find a nice community that still has a healthy disrespect of the Feds and move there. That sphere of locations is getting smaller and smaller by the day but I still hold out hope to find it.
I want Mean ole Marge on the end of the road to let me know my (then) grandchildern are little pissants, not the local police.
We managed to find one.
Exactly.
OT but apparently another reporter said online they are taking information to Project Veritas
https://www.thegatewaypundit.com/2021/06/will-sitting-project-veritas-cbs-62-reporter-blows-whistle-network-discrimination-air-weather-report-video/
I am sure it is again, a big nothingburger, but interesting trend nonetheless.
Though, I do think Hype’s thinking they really are just interviewing for OANN or Newsmax is not that far off the mark.
One of the downsides to living in suburbia is that I can’t do insane shit like this for the Fourth of July.
THAT. IS. FUCKING. AWESOME.
Reminds me of the pumpkin trebuchet festivals just more boomie!
I do love the old man yelling ‘fire in the hole’ and he just mosey on without a care in the world, enough that they had to speed up the video.
Somewhere in east Texas they have an anvil shooting contest every year. Fun stuff.
Good grief. As kids my brother and I made all manner of bombs, guns and rockets. We used black powder, calcium carbide, smokeless powder and a lot of Estes rocket engines. The Estes engines work best if they aren’t pushing any weight. Cut fins out of milk jugs and glue them directly on the engines. Man, those things really fly. I look back on those days of freedom with great fondness. Then I grew up. My father is a mining engineer and has done quite a bit of blasting. Thats when I found out what a real bomb is, not those little fire-poppers we made as kids.
Many laugh out loud moments in this one, Animal!
Good tale!
I have some friends that run a fireworks show every summer.
The night of the show they wear T-shirts that say on the back “if you see me running, shut up and run.”
Thanks for the fun lunchtime reading.
While nowhere near Tricky’s pro-level amateur munitions making, my friends and I made some cool stuff.
Take a pipe open at both ends. On one end, secure a thick rubber band cut once, so that the loop sticks out, making a U and a slingshot. Take a straw and put one of those tiny firecrackers in one end, wedged into place with blue tip matches. Shoot the straw out of the tube. Matches ignite on impact, igniting the firecracker fuse.
I’d also take those little paper wrapped popper things, put them inside handmade clay balls. After drying, shoot them from a slingshot and get a satisfying sound on impact.
All I can say is this is what I would be shooting off if I could keep from going to prison.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YVOevUSM8LQ
Okay if that isn’t in Glibertopia when I get there I will be seriously disappointed
Yet another example of a private space program making more progress than NASA over the past decade.
Holy shit!
That is incredible!
Agreed. JFC.
WANT
Awesome
That was awesome!
Steampunk goes to a new level.
Here is a great book on the subject of risk taking and edge work.
https://www.amazon.com/Absinthe-Flamethrowers-Projects-Ruminations-Dangerously/dp/1556528221/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=
Hilarious, Animal! Bravo!
Also serious props for correct use of “career” instead of “careen.”
What ever happened to Tricky Rick?
Well, we’re not sure. Remember at the end of Animal House? The “Daniel Simpson Day, ’63, Whereabouts Unknown”? I think Tricky Rick’s story probably proceeded along those same lines.
Thanks Animal. I have a couple of memories of that sort.
1) Swiping pure sodium from the chemistry lab (about golf-ball size) and chucking it into the lake at Boy Scout camp (then running like mad to not get caught)
2) Setting my sneaks on fire with gasoline and running like mad to look like Hermes
3) Watching my buddy load a coke can up with black powder and throwing it in the city sewer at the rivers edge and then running like mad before we ended up in jail
You’ll note a common theme in these exploits.
You were trying out for the track team?
In those particular moments I might have actually won something, otherwise I was pretty slow.
Politicians here have passed a bunch of bans on categories of fireworks, said bans being heartily ignored by the citizenry.
Thanks, Animal.
Your stories always bring to mind the Truth I came to understand too late.
“The mistakes a man most regrets are the ones he didn’t make when he had the chance.”
Gold!
No. Juiia.
I have a variation of that among my own personal philosophies, that being that when I’m old and looking back on my life, I should be satisfied that all my sins are sins of commission, not sins of omission.
Cool article again Animal. Growing up in the South in the 60’s and 70’s we had no shortage of fireworks, but it was mostly bottle rockets, black cats, Roman candles, etc. M-80’s and cherry bombs could be found, but were Iconsidered sort of “outlaw”. When my brother was around 16-17 he and his friends thought it would be cool to throw m-80’s at each other. One guy was wearing a loose fitting pair of rubber boots, and Murphy’s law instructed one m-80 to land in it. Blew his boot off a bruised his foot awful bad. But it could have been worse I suppose.
Your friend is lucky to have all his toes! M-80s were serious.
We regularly had bottle rocket wars. I still have scars. I swear 1/4 of my body weight is scar tissue.
On one occasion a bottle rocket passed between my ear and my scalp. On another occasion I ducked a bottle rocket and my head struck the broken end of a bit of rebar. I think that one cost me a shaved scalp and about 30 stitches. Fun times!
We used to have bottle rocket fights too and usually had enough distance between combatants that “hits” were rare. I don’t recall anyone getting hurt.
I have a buddy that I’ll call Juan that moonlights on a fireworks crew that does big municipal events from barges. He has some hair raising tails of almost sinking a barge once when something went wrong and damn near hulled the boat and sent a couple of people into the drink. Fortunately no one had serious injuries.
Good story, Animal. Model rocket engines….genius! When I was a kid the 4th of July was always an anticipated holiday and brings back memories.
When I was 13 I saved up fireworks money from my grass cutting jobs. I bought over $20 worth of fireworks which back then would fill a large grocery bag. I had bricks of Black Cat and Zebra firecrackers(the preferred brands), grosses of bottle rockets and numerous “chasers” (those whistling fireworks that you never knew where they were going to land before they exploded). On the morning of July 3rd I was on the wooden back porch of our house lighting single firecrackers and then throwing them on the roof of our house as my parents were not at home. They sounded louder exploding up high on the roof. And then disaster struck – a firecracker with a slow fuse rolled off the shingled roof with enough momentum to avoid falling into the gutter. I heard it ding off the edge of the gutter and then watched in horror as it fell into the open bag of fireworks before exploding. Damn near caught the porch on fire. My entire stash of fireworks which would have lasted me the entire 4th of July went up in a blaze of glory in 5 minutes. It was a crushing blow…
M-80’s were the gold standard of firework when I was a kid. They were rare – I only recall seeing one with my own two eyes. We never saw them for sale at any of the fireworks stands we went to. The rumor amongst us kids was that they were the equivalent of 1/4 stick of dynamite and you had have “connections” to get them. We had no connections. Cherry bombs on the other had were widely available but not popular as they did not provide much bang for the buck.
My step father had a black powder rifle. We got lots of narrow gazes when his supply of black powder was suspiciously low.
*A toilet paper tube and some duct tape will rattle a lot of windows.
We tried our hand at making a homemade M-80’s once – took the powder extracted from a bunch of regular firecrackers and packed it into a cardboard tube off a coat hanger. I guess we didn’t pack it tight enough, it was a disappointment.
Primers. Dig the anvil out and pack a thin straw with mercury fulminate.
When I was a kid all the good stuff was illegal in Indiana, so people did just as you said… they went to Kentucky and brought back a trunk full. Now we’re the ones who supply it to other states.
I think everyone has some type of fireworks injury story. That, along with dog bites and what people absolutely will not eat, are always good conversation starters.
I was present for this.
https://www.nbclosangeles.com/news/local/simi-valley-fourth-of-july-fireworks-explosion-cause/1962319/?amp
Nowhere near the danger zone, but it was very loud and kicked up a ton of dust. This kind of shot seems to follow me around.
BTW. That story doesn’t mention that the errant shell knock the table over and the chain reaction exploding shells all got fired at a bunch of people in lawn chairs across the street. 28 got hit bad enough to get an ambulance ride out of it. Bedlam.
A buddy of mine in the CAF many years ago told me that the only meaningful difference between fireworks and anti-personnel munitions was the aim.
2 years ago some friends of ours had a neighbor who was looking into a fireworks mortar to check out a malfunction. Of course it went off. It literally blew the guy’s head to pieces and sent it across multiple lawns. This is a subject we no longer bring up in conversation.
We had some neighbors shoot one of those multiple shell mortars one time. Shot 1 was fine. Shot 2 tipped the tube over. Shot 3 went straight at my dad and I and exploded between us.
Needless to say, some unpleasantries were exchanged.
Not a mortar one, but more like a bundled Roman candle launching box that we bought at a safe and legal stand….first 3 went up and it was a pretty display, next 12 were firing down the street with no ability to safely get to it and stop it. The NM Statie down the street was not pleased with us at all.
A lil something for those hatebirds….
so many of these newer pieces may well be practical, but boy are they ugly.
Goose Hunting is something that I’ve never participated in but would probably get into if not for my irrational hatred of Canadian Geese.
I’m not sure that guy understand what goes on with hunting.
Kyle does:
Truth.
This hasn’t been my experience at all. I’ve killed and eaten double digits of hate birds, and always enjoy the meal.
To each his own. Besides being funny, his description is closer to my experience. A friend brought some jerky over last fall and I thought I would puke.
Ducks are way better.
I won’t speak for whoever this Kyle guy is, but I have noted that a lot of the trouble folks have with game critters in general is that they try to prepare it just like they would a domestic counterpart. That can really mess up the end product. Also, with wild game, there’s no schedule for when the animal is killed. You’re as likely to get a tough old elderly male hate bird as a young, tender one.
Or it may just be a matter of taste. Who knows?
It depends a lot on what they have been eating. When they are moving north they have been eating from the gulf…shrimp. and whatnot. They are inedible.
Concur here on the east coast.
And when I used to hunt waterfowl geese were quite high on the wing and big so a big gun was a plus. My uncle used to use a 10 gauge. I, being of smaller stature, had to make do with 12 gauge magnum with full choke.
And speaking of places where I spent my formative years.
South Jersey waitress attacked after confronting group who left Nifty Fifty’s without paying: Police
Instead let us file a report and do absolutely nothing about it.
Growing up, I lived in a new neighborhood in OK which meant everyone had at least 3/4 acre, and there were no trees older than the neighborhood. So nobody worried about aerial fireworks lighting anything up and you could have a great sightline. We’d get “day” fireworks and then spend the week leading up to July 4 setting them off and chasing them across the neighborhood as they came down.
My grandfather didn’t want his sons to lose a finger playing with fireworks, so he made a model field gun for my father and then when my uncle was born and Pa was more adventurous, a model tank to shoot the firecrackers from. My dad had three children, so my grandfather made my youngest brother a battleship along the same concepts (though it looked much less like a real battleship than the tank or cannon). They really were a great idea — having to “load” the things slowed down the rate of firecracker consumption, and directing the blast out the barrel was more entertaining and less ear-damaging.
Watching a tour and more of the USS Natilus at Submarine Force Museum on YouTube.
https://youtu.be/5jJVbL_wRCU
Has sucked me in by episode 3.
Thanks. I’ve done the USS Becuna, USS Pampanito, U-505 and the USS Growler.
After all of these tours I’m quite sure I don’t want to be a submariner. It was quite interesting to contrast the USS Becuna with U-505.