The Years of Living Dangerously, When Fireworks Were a Blast

Kids, do not try this at home. Besides, getting arrested isn't as much fun. (By David Mcnew -- Getty Images)

In Maryland, you can pretty much wave a sparkler. But not in Montgomery County! There, they urge you to rat out your neighbor by calling the fire investigator hotline.

Where are the soaring skyrockets of yesteryear, the whoosh that rattled the kitchen window, exploding in a star-burst above the trees? The M80s, cherry bombs? Pretty much gone. It isn't like this all over this great land of ours, but around these parts, now when people say "fireworks," they mean little things that light up in the driveway. The "Tickled Pink." The "Red Devil." The "Night Treasure." They sound like accouterments sold in gentlemen's restrooms at nightclubs and gas stations.

Off to find anyone else who missed the glory days of the bang-up backyard show, we arrive at a roadside stand on Pennsylvania Avenue in Southeast Washington. Fireworks these days, they come in assorted value packs, with tough names such as "Mad Dog" and "Thunder Buster" and "Big Bomb."

Phyllis Thompson, a grandmother of a certain age, is standing inside the plywood booth, keeping to the shade.

"So, these things back there, the Big Bomb, any of those things go up in the air?" we ask.

"No," says Thompson.

"Any of 'em go boom ?"

"Nope."

"How much they cost, those packages? The most expensive?"

"One hundred seventy-five."

"One seventy-five, nothing goes up in the air? The Thunder Buster, that one, what does that do?"

"Well, don't none of them go more than 10 feet up. Ten feet. And they don't explode. That's the law in the District. We do not carry anything like that, I guarantee. That's a fine and jail time, and I'm saying, no way. They light up real nice, though. They go round and round. They brought the snakes back."