by Glenn Schumacher

Created on: June 17, 2009

THE BOMB BOX

What was a 43 year old lawyer doing on a barge in the middle of the Ohio River with a half ton of explosives?

The Fourth of July! Independence Day! Fireworks! Was there a boy alive in these United States whose heart didn't beat faster at the thought?

Flags and parades and marching bands are fine. Picnics and hotdogs and outdoor games are just great. But FIREWORKS! They're the very essence of this country's annual birthday extravaganza. Pictures of firecrackers exploding form the background of newspaper ads for weeks in advance of the big day. Television gives us shells star-bursting in the background as the car/furniture/swimming pool salesman offers that special sale price in celebration of the Fourth.

I admit it. I'm a complete fool for things that explode. I was one of those kids who pestered his father for weeks in advance of the Fourth. "Did you get any fireworks yet?" I'd ask at least five times a day. "Did you get any cherry bombs?" Of course my dad, being a responsible father of the fifties, had limited his purchases to snakes (little black buttons that when lit smoked and grew long ash snakes) sparklers and a couple packs of lady-finger firecrackers. The evening of the Fourth was always exiting, but sadly, it never felt like enough.

It was the big municipal displays that set the tone for the proper level of pyrotechnics. I felt that anything less than a rocket ascending to the night sky in a trail of sparks followed by the chest thumping WHUMP as the shell exploded into a colored starburst of millions of trailing meteors was, while not a complete let down, at least not all that exciting. Firecrackers made a good loud noise, but they didn't fly. Bottle rockets both flew and exploded, but without the starburst. You can see the frustration.

When I was ten I teamed up with my fifteen year old buddy, Cal, who lived down the block, and entered the mysteries world of science and engineering (junior division). Together we would cut the guts out of old TV sets, re-wire record players into hi-fi noise blasters and, after that fateful day Cal went to the library, learned to make gun powder.

Gunpowder. The Chinese concoction ironically intended by its unknown inventor as a potion to prolong life. Magic black powder that, with the proper chemicals, could be created in a garage by two kids who had run out of TVs to dismantle.

We mixed, we lit and ... it fizzled, smoked and sparked (a little) then went out. Clearly something was missing

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