From Kevin M, Via Dr. Helen
My history with fireworks:
When I was a kid, my father was Vermont State Champion trapshooter in the handicapped division. He paid me 25 cents for each box of 12-guage shells I reloaded for him, so we had gobs of Hercules Red-Dot shotgun powder around the house, as well as a subscription to The Shotgun News. I saw an ad in the Shotgun News for empty Mark II Pineapple grenade casings, so, being a kid, I ordered one.
It arrived, I filled it with Red-Dot, put in a model rocket fuse and sealed the opening with candle wax (melted in a pot on Mom's stove...I'm not using a lit candle because even though I'm really stupid, I'm not friggin' suicidal!).
I bury the grenade in Mom's tomato garden next door to our neighbors' house, a pair of elderly and wonderful French-Canadians. I light the fuse and run like Jessie Owens.
Mom no longer has any tomatoes, there's a crater big enough to bury our dog in the garden, Mr. Rouleau dashes outside his house screaming expletives in French and I take off into the woods to develop my skills in unassisted living for two days before returning home to one seriously p*ssed-off mother and a father who, when he learned of the calamity, wet himself.
Fireworks, people. Let the pros handle them.
My father-in law watched a yukon burn up after a kid inside it somehow got his sack of fireworks ignited. The car filled up with smoke and one kid got seriously burned because he couldn't find his way out.
A guy got killed near here over the weekend making a sparkler bomb.
I don't get a big kick out of fireworks so much any more. Maybe when my kid(s) get older. Anyways, have fun, be careful, and if you have a funny story, by all means share it.