As July Fourth approaches, ushering in another fireworks season, the public-safety people are busy as usual reminding us to leave the explosives to the pros.

They trot out the emergency-room statistics telling us how many fewer fingers we Americans can expect to own before this celebration is over. Stick with the sparklers, they caution, because messing around with things like firecrackers and cherry bombs could earn you the nickname Lefty. The safety people are correct, of course, which is why most communities these days pay pyrotechnic companies big bucks for their big bangs.

But there was a time when making a patriotic clamor was more of a homegrown affair, when the bombs bursting in air often were sent aloft by local amateurs. In the Brooklyn, N.Y., of my childhood, for example, the July Fourth fireworks show was the province of the petty criminals, street corner idlers and other assorted neighborhood riffraff who lived for this one opportunity to blow things up without having to go to jail for it. And those of us who turned out to watch these demolitionists in their greasy pompadours went to bed satisfied that night, happy to have witnessed one hell of a show for free.

The Fourth was a communal celebration in my neighborhood. Throughout the afternoon, the alleyways between buildings flowed with music and laughter as families sat at long tables to feast. By early evening, everyone would gather at the intersection to await the fireworks. Everyone came: old couples with beach chairs, kids on bikes and scooters, young parents pushing strollers. The night’s hosts would already be there, lounging under the streetlights in their knit shirts, pointy-toed shoes and proud sneers. They combed their oily locks and smoked Lucky Strikes, looking cool for the girls with the teased-up hair. Although normally a complacent bunch, they were roused by fireworks, by the faintly illicit nature of making a thunderous racket that would shake windows and make babies cry. For weeks before this night, they gathered explosives through what was believed to be their private pipeline to the exotic shops of Chinatown. Since our section of Brooklyn offered no city-sponsored fireworks display, and these guys were going to blow off their stuff anyway, the beat cops unofficially sanctioned the festivities by blocking off the intersection and patrolling the outskirts. At dark, porch lights blinked out, a cheer went up, and the amateur pryos, using their cigarettes as torches, touched off a few mats of firecrackers to open the show.

For the next couple of hours, the neighborhood was rocked by non-stop explosions and showers of gaudy light. Gunpowder swirled in a thick haze over the houses, parked cars and the cheering crowd. Rockets of every kind sizzled and chirped and whistled in long lazy arcs across the night sky, raining sparks down onto the rooftops. Dogs howled and squealing children scribed their names with sparkler light as the adults sipped iced tea and beer and waved their tiny American flags. The surly showmen touched off a hundred explosions, then dipped into their cardboard boxes and set off a hundred more. Firecrackers, cherry bombs, ashcans and brain-stunning M-80s. Roman candles that pumped a relentless stream of fireballs into the sky. Eventually, they set up a row of tall tubes on the street for the grand finale. Fuses flared, and for a couple of dazzling minutes, the sky over Brooklyn – our tiny piece of it, anyway – blossomed with flowers of multi-colored light. The crowd applauded and shuffled home.

The next morning, the neighbors swept up the inch-thick carpet of shredded paper while the kids poked through the litter to find unexploded firecrackers. Having done their civic duty for another year, our hosts were back on the street corners by evening, sneering proudly and looking cooler than ever for the girls with the teased-up hair.