A Bronx Fourth of July

The explosions started early, a wake-up call to all who still slept that the commemoration of America’s declaration of independence from Great Britain had begun. Reverberating up and down Westervelt Avenue and rousing neighbors on nearby streets, those booms and blasts of celebration echoed the sounds of the battles fought on this terrain in the British-occupied Bronx some 200 years earlier.

Not that the battles fought here had any significant effect on the course of the Revolutionary War. One story we often heard in the classroom characterizes the futility of our forebears’ efforts. It told of a group of rebel colonists who devised a plan of attack. Dragging a cannon to the top of the hill on the Kingsbridge Road (later named Gun Hill Road), near the banks of the Bronx River, they launched a cannonball on British troops stationed below. The effort, though valiant and well-intentioned, was of little consequence to their red-coated targets.

This area of the northern Bronx was called Neutral Ground since neither side held full control. That made it difficult to know which side a civilian was on. As a result, local residents endured constant raids on their property from bands of guerillas on the American side as well as from Redcoats, Hessians, and Tories.

But even back then, long before the outcome of the American Revolution could have been known, the colonists celebrated every fourth of July with fireworks. In a letter dated July 3, 1776, John Adams directed Americans to celebrate the Fourth with “pomp and parade…bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forever more.” Philadelphia started us off, holding the first fireworks display on July 4, 1777.

Personal possession of fireworks was illegal in New York City, yet some families on the block acquired enough of an arsenal to set off a non-stop barrage that lasted from morning to midnight. At a frantic pace the older kids and teenagers lit the fuses, apparently unconcerned about running out of ammunition. With one match they would set off whole packages of string fireworks at a time. The furious, rapid-fire bang-bang-banging went on for minutes as paper wrappers leaped and flew across the pavement. When it seemed that a particular string of firecrackers had been spent, the budding pyrotechnicians would approach for a closer look, only to be unnerved by a leftover bang or two that, had there been a little less patience, might have cost them some fingers.

Firecrackers were loud, but cherry bombs were deafening. To make them even louder, the kids set them off inside metal garbage cans, causing a reaction in the pit of the stomach similar to a physical punch. Add to that the whiz-bang of the bottle rockets, and the ear-splitting cacophony was complete.

Young kids waved sparklers lit by a supervising adult. Cracker balls afforded them another way to participate safely in the fun. When thrown forcefully to the ground, these little red balls that resembled Trix cereal would explode with satisfying snaps.

By afternoon the air was hazy with smoke, and redolent with the spicy scent of gunpowder. Toward evening, charcoal from backyard barbecue grills added more smoke and smoldering scents to the air.

At dusk, people in cities and towns across America piled into cars or used public transportation to get to fireworks shows organized by local businesses or municipalities. But residents of Westervelt Avenue did not have to fight traffic or crowds. Armed with lawn chairs, couch pillows, mosquito repellent, cold drinks, and ice cream from the Mister Softee truck, they made their way to their front stoops, settled in, and waited to be dazzled.

Once darkness fell, families on the eastern side of the street brought out their nighttime arsenal, a load that appeared as abundant as the noisemaking bombs of the daylight hours. Their displays were supplemented by the equally elaborate show from Kingsland Avenue beyond. Gazing skyward, swatting mosquitoes here and there, we had front row seats to a spectacular show that lasted for hours. Now the fireworks that had been set off simply for noise took a back seat to the blazing explosions of color that we had waited for all day.

The ground show was a pale forerunner: Roman candles pumped out continuous bursts of light; tentacles of fire shot from the whizzing spinners as onlookers scrambled out of the way; fountains spewed sizzling sparks. But the sky show brought audible gasps from the crowd as rockets shimmered skyward, exploded into starbursts that filled the sky, then melted into streamers of red, white, silver, green, gold, and blue that rained down upon the rooftops.

As eleven o’clock approached, the pace of the rocket launchings slowed and soon stopped. Cramped from sitting for hours with heads upturned, we headed inside. But the teenagers, along with a few adults, were not finished. Rapid-fire blasts of firecrackers started all over again, even at the midnight hour, perhaps in an attempt to use up all the leftovers.

We fell asleep as we had awakened, to the sounds of celebration eerily similar to the sounds of the Revolution itself.

The next morning, tattered remnants littered the street. Red wrappers from rockets and bombs fluttered across the pavement, along with the blue-and-white checkered firecracker papers.

Another Fourth of July was over. We knew that next year’s Independence Day would be celebrated in exactly the same way, as this one had been a repeat of so many before.

© Barbara Cole 2021. All Rights Reserved.