Come Fourth of July, Coeur d'Alene would not have liked me as a kid. But to be fair, I don't think many liked me as a kid. 

Growing up in Seattle near Green Lake, my brothers and I were fanatical about two things around Independence Day: Firecrackers and blowing things up. Boys and explosives were a dangerous combination, and I'm surprised we didn't get into more trouble. 

Each summer, on our family trip to visit relatives in Montana, we would buy thousands of firecrackers, where they were legal, with names like Black Cat, Zebra and Thunder Bomb. We would take them home, where they were illegal, and proceed to drive our neighbors nuts for weeks as they listened to explosions day and night. 

"KNOCK IT OFF," our neighbor, Jack, would eventually shout from across the street. 

We would, but the next day, we would start up again. We had time and mini bombs at our disposal and little regard for our neighbors' desire for peace and quiet.

We blew up pretty much anything we could find. A sister's doll, plastic soldiers and toy cars were turned into rubble. We would dig holes in the ground, bury firecrackers to the fuse, light them and run, a shower of dirt in our wake. And, of course, we would light strings of them, hundreds at a time, and the rapid pops would echo around up and down the street. 

Eventually, someone would call the police but by the time they arrived, we were on our best behavior, playing basketball or baseball.

But not for long.

We liked to see how long we could hold a firecracker before throwing it in the air. Stupid, I know. If we were somewhere with a stream or creek, we would light a firecracker, wait and throw it in the water. If we timed it right, it would explode underwater. We thought that was the coolest. 

It was incredibly foolish and we didn't care. 

Once, at Whidbey Island, my oldest brother waited too long and a firecracker blew up in his hand. My annoyed parents rushed him to the hospital. His hand made a fine recovery, but the story lived on, we got a lecture from my mom and she took our firecrackers. 

No matter.   

In Montana, we also bought what were called "Screaming Missiles." The name was spot on. These were smallish projectiles, maybe 4 inches tall, that we stood on the ground, lit the fuse, and ran for cover. We never knew which direction it would go. Maybe up. Maybe sideways. Maybe in a circle. Once, it flew by my head. Another time, it zipped toward the neighbor's house, crashed through some bushes and landed at their feet in the backyard. 

They were not amused. 

Looking back, it was an act of God none of us were seriously hurt. Another example of how reckless I was as a boy, I had a BB rifle, took aim at a friend across the street and up an alley, and pulled the trigger. He was far enough way I didn't think I could hit him. 

I did.  

Right above his left eye. 

He ran home screaming, blood streaming down his face, only to return hours later, a large bandage around his head. We laughed about it at the time, his parents weren't upset and I never really got into trouble for nearly taking out a kid's eye. 

They were different times. 

I don't have any more firecrackers. The last of the Screaming Missiles were sent into orbit decades ago on a Seattle street. I don't recall what became of my beloved BB gun, but I never shot another kid. 

These days, I'm not a huge fan of fireworks and I like my peace and quiet. But when I do hear the crack and boom of a distant firecracker, I can't help but remember those endless childhood summers, patient parents and a kid who somehow survived his own bad ideas. 

And for that, I'm grateful.

Happy Fourth of July.

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Bill Buley is managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].