don't follow pat

Growing up, I had a fascination with fireworks. In 1966, when I was 12 years old and entering the 7^th grade, my parents gave me a chemistry set. It was amazing, and filled with various chemicals, test tubes, and beakers, and with instructions on what chemicals could be combined to make amazing colors or chemical reactions in the test tube. Now as a parent, I suspect that they saw great promise in me as a budding chemist!

But what they did not know, is that I was more interested in learning how to make things that exploded.

Of course, none of the chemicals that came in the kit could do that, so I had to find another source. Fortunately, one of my friends had found a mail order catalogue that included everything that you would need to make explosives, from the chemicals to the casings to the fuses. And his parents didn’t seem to ask any questions about strange packages that would arrive in the mail.

So, I sent in an order, with his address for delivery, for the ingredients to make hundreds of explosives. And not wanting to waste time with the smaller firecrackers, I ordered “M-80” casings (see photo below) that could hold the gunpowder of at least 10, maybe 20 firecrackers. (Click here).

Once the shipment came in, I hid the supplies behind my actual chemistry set in my bedroom. When my parents or siblings came by, they could see me working with my stock chemicals. But as soon as the coast was clear, I’d pull out the real chemicals, and start making gun powder, filling the shells, and adding the fuses.

The excitement was beyond imagination. As my other friends were out playing sports and hanging around with girls, I was about to have more explosive materials than anyone my age ever dreamed of. But the excitement was gone, after I tested the first one at night in the park behind my house. I lit the fuse and ran away. But instead of an explosion, the flash powder ignited, and blew out the ends of the M-80 casing, with a soft “phewt.” A dud.

Not to be discouraged by this failure, I went back to the drawing board. How could I keep those ends from blowing out? Easy. Just put a small nail in each end, so that the cap could not blow out. I did that, and when I lit it, “phewt.” Still a dud. The ends did not blow out, but they just collapse around the nail. What I needed was a way to encapsulate the entire casing, so that the end caps would not blow out.

Browsing in the local hardware store, I saw the possible solution: nylon strapping tape. It was incredibly strong, and I could use it to wrap all sides of the casing. This time the test was a success, as the tape held in the end caps, and led to a thundering explosion, almost like a stick of dynamite. And as a bonus, most of the nails that I had added remained in place and did not turn into shrapnel.

Game on. I filled a large Folger’s Coffee can with M-80s wrapped with nylon strapping tape and hid it deep in the recesses of my attic (not thinking that the excessive heat might be a problem).

My pyrotechnics did not go unnoticed however by our village police. When I was 13 years old I was charge with “FIREWORKS IN POSSESSION” and given a warning by Officer Dan Crawford–shown here on my police rap sheet:

When I was 15 years old, I was caught again by Officer Crawford with fireworks in my possession. This time I was with a couple of friends, and we decided to light them off on the Shorewood Hills School grounds.

We waited until it was pitch dark and climbed up onto the roof of the school. From there, we could easily see everything and everyone around us, but we could not be seen. We’d light an M-80 and toss it as far as we could (and they went pretty far due to the extra weight from the strapping tape). Anyone standing below would have absolutely no idea where the explosion came from.

After a while, we decided to try another approach, and climbed a big maple tree on the school grounds, not far from my house. High in the tree, we began lighting the M-80s and tossing them as far as we could onto the school grounds. I can’t recall how many we had ignited, but suddenly, a light shown in my eyes, and we heard a stern: “Alright, I see you up there. Come down right now.”

As I started to climb down, I could see that it was a Shorewood Hills policeman. I thought that he had only seen me, since my friend was quite small of stature, and well camouflaged. So, I whispered to him, “I don’t think he saw you. Just stay here and I’ll take the wrap!”  He did not speak, but I could see in his eyes a deep sense of appreciation. A true friendship in the making.

I climbed down and jumped to the ground from the lowest branch. The cop shined the lights in my face and said “Remington. You again.”  And then, to my horror, he shined the light back up into the tree, and said “I see you up there, you monkey! Get down here!” He pretended that he was on his way but had gotten tangled up in a branch somehow.

I don’t remember what happened after that. But now, years later, I can imagine that Officer Crawford did everything he could to keep from laughing at this situation.

After that, I was more careful in where and when I ignited my explosives. All went well, until one day, when I found a much bigger explosive in my brother’s desk.

My older brother worked for the Shorewood Hills Village crew. When he was cleaning up at Blackhawk Country Club after the 4^th of July fireworks, he found the un-exploded casing of a firework, that was about one-quarter the size of a stick of dynamite—those that make the loud boom that can be heard from miles away. I had seen that firework sitting in his drawer for a couple of years, so I figured that the statute of limitations expired, and it was my turn to check it out.

Knowing that a quarter stick of dynamite would have a pretty loud explosion, I needed to have a long fuse. So, I soaked about 20 feet of string in gasoline, so that we would be a long way away before it exploded. I called my friends, and we all gathered in the park behind my house to experience our first dynamite explosion.

Unfortunately, that trick did not work, as the flame on the string would flicker out. I held a match further along the string, but it would still go out. I finally found myself holding the match right on the blackened, burned fuse. Failing to light even then, I decided to break open the casing with a stick. I figured that it was a complete dud, so maybe nothing would happen. I was wrong.

As I brought the match close to the explosive, it suddenly flashed into a brilliant, blinding light and huge ball of fire. I must have been able to turn away, as I felt the flames burn the right side of my face. I stood up, and turned around but couldn’t see anything. I screamed “I’m blind!” and stumbled toward my house. My friends all scattered and ran home, leaving me to find my way to my house.

As I came in the back door of our house, my mom looked at me from the living room and could see that my sweatshirt was slowly burning, from the middle out. I couldn’t see her, however, as when I would blink my eyes, the lids would stick closed. I learned later that my eye lashes had been singed, and the curled ends made them act like Velcro. Once closed, they were Velcroed shut!

I don’t recall much about what happened later that night. Or even what happened to that Folger’s Coffee can of M-80s, carefully stashed in the attic. It may be that my parents, or one of my siblings, discovered it did me a big favor by disposing of it. In the end, I truly enjoyed chemistry, both in high school and college, but never learned as much as I did when I was growing up with fireworks in my possession in Shorewood Hills.