“Another night in Fallujah,” I joked to my husband as we endured yet another evening punctuated by the fsst-pop-BOOM! of illegal fireworks. The pyrotechnic plague, which has hit all five boroughs of New York City, is not just keeping residents awake but causing injury, property damage, and even a death.
When I was a child, fireworks invoked feelings with which only Christmas could compete. My eldest brother, who attended college in Indiana, where the glorious goodies were legal, acted as our “fixer.” When he came home to Illinois for summer break, we would marvel at the loot he brought us: double-sided firecrackers (the rat-a-tat-tat! ones), bottle rockets, fountain-shooters, and, of course, the MOAF: the M80.
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