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View Larger + PHOTO: File There were two 4th of July rituals in our neighborhood. One was to see if someone knew someone who could get us fireworks, especially cherry bombs. The other was to build the biggest bonfire on the night before.

Out of school and a long way from history lessons and founding fathers, most of us had forgotten, or maybe never understood, the reasons for the celebration. We just knew that something had to be celebrated with lots of bangs and fire, not just any old fire but a bonfire.

Our search for wood started days before. We stored the supply under the cover of bushes, trees, and porches. Crafty enough, we had little reason to fear discovery. There were logs big enough for two to carry, but most of what we found were tree limbs, sticks, and pieces of lumber. No matter, as long as it was dry enough to burn.

Our excitement started just before dark. Early on, we lit a few sparklers with punk, that sweet-smelling, slow-burning, rope-like stuff that lasted for hours; its purpose was to light more punk, sparklers, the cherry bomb, and salutes. We threw the sparklers with little caution, end over end, some landing on rooftops, finally, thankfully, trickling out with a final hiss. At dusk, more rumbling. The team gathered; its members driven by the same objective . . . the biggest bonfire ever. We were on the move.

The tumult began with little order, or so it seemed. The older guys appeared from the shadow . . . bold, undaunted, and ready with the huge logs. In turn, kids ran back and forth from all angles, laden with wood of all sizes and shapes, stopping at the pile, making half turns, then winding out a discus-like throw to the top, the missiles piling higher and higher. We moved quickly, fearing little. In a flash, the heap of wood extended almost to the level of the first floor of the houses, and at the porch level of the fireman’s bungalow. I stood back, looked up, and spotted a few browned Christmas trees on high.

No one ever knew who lit the fire.

The tinder, baked dry by the sizzling summer days, was quickly out of control. The neighborhood, at first lit by dim streetlights that cast weak shadows, was now alive with the intensity of the dancing glows . . . yellows, reds, greens, and the smell of heavy smoke. Shadows that covered trees and houses now went missing. Flames danced in the windows. Porch lights came on in unison. We assumed the adults would love the celebratory show, surely appreciating our ability to commemorate this holiday in such a spectacular fashion. Nope. Not the case.

Sirens squealed in the distance. As they approached, we started our flights to the safety of our homes, peeking around corners along the way, embracing the thrill that only a huge neighborhood bonfire could deliver.

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli is the author of three popular memoirs, “Growing up Italian; Grandfather’s Fig Tree and Other Stories”, “What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner” and “My Story Continues: From Neighborhood to Junior High.”  NOW, he has written his fourth book "A Whole Bunch of 500 Word Stories."

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