The Boomer compound was chaos in motion. Freckle-faced, redheaded girls of all ages ran to and fro, tending to their many tasks. The air was ripe with a heavy sweetness, which drew my attention to several distilleries boiling up “mountain thunder” spirits. Most of the girls were either smoking or chewing tobacco while they diligently worked at making their illegal goods.
Captain Morgan Boomer appeared from the largest of the dwellings and warmly greeted us. “Welcome to our home,” he exclaimed excitedly. “We don’t often get company up here, so please make yourselves comfortable. Lunch is a-cooking and we’ll break bread before we commence with business. I’ll take you on a tour afterwards.”
Thanking Captain Morgan for his kind hospitality, Al and I sat down at a long picnic bench with our host and enjoyed a glass of sun tea served in mason jars. As I looked around the busy compound, I realized that my father and Captain Morgan were greatly outnumbered. The Boomer clan appeared to be strictly comprised of females. Sipping my tea and musing on the strong female presence, I took note of the physical layout of the compound, which consisted of a cabin, several outbuildings, and a large, eerie barn that, as I later found out, housed the fireworks factory. Inside, tables were set up with the various components used to construct some of the most beautiful and explosive fireworks I had ever seen.
A happy and boisterous bunch, the Boomer girls gleefully broke from their labors and helped their obviously pregnant mother, Bertha, carry platters of mountain greens, grilled rabbit and chicken, biscuits, and watermelon to the table. Baskets of vegetables, gathered from the family garden and greenhouse, were scattered around the compound, along with a mountain of assorted melons. I took note of a small greenhouse bulging with edible garden plants, located next to a drying shed that was obviously used to cure recently caught wild game. Several small animal skins hung from the eaves.
As the Boomer clan took their seats, Captain Morgan introduced his daughters. A collector of alcohol from around the world, Captain Morgan had named all eight of his daughters after his favorite spirits: Sherry, Moonshine, Brandy, Bailey, Rummer, Margarita, Ginny, and Tia Maria. While feasting, Captain Morgan spoke of his hopes that the next Boomer child would be a healthy boy.
After a pleasant lunch, in which I avoided the rabbit, Captain Morgan took us on a tour of the compound. As we were there for fireworks, we had only a cursory look into the building that housed the ammunition works, where a young girl was crimping bullet caps onto their base. We were then afforded a tutorial on the process of making moonshine. Al was impressed with the elaborate system but declined an offer to sample the elixir.
In the fireworks barn, the Boomers excitedly began to explain the beauty and power of their newest creations. One of the eldest girls gleefully showed my father a new type of “bloom boom” she had recently constructed. Because it was early in the day and the newest model needed to be viewed on a clear night, a demonstration of the “wildflower” was not possible. These dangerous beauties were professional grade fireworks. Launched out of a metal pipe high into the air, they exploded in an array of colors and designs.
My father was fascinated with the Boomer’s fireworks lab. He spent more than an hour examining the different chemicals they used to produce the colorful aerial chrysanthemums: copper for blue, sodium for yellow, calcium for orange, barium for green, lithium or strontium for red. The Boomer girls explained the complex process of combining chemicals and demonstrated how they assembled the ingredients when creating the “wildflower.”
Impressed with their knowledge of chemistry, Al ordered a dozen wildflowers. Then he turned his attention toward the focus of our trip—M-500s that detonated with the force of half a stick of dynamite. Al enjoyed the spectacle of aerial blooms but he thrilled to the explosive power of M-500s. In short, my father loved to blow things up.
After a short lesson on the design and construction of these pedestrian-looking explosives, several of the juvenile “master explosive designers” took us on a short hike to a small clearing where they demonstrated the explosive nature of the M-500s. Combining a few M-500s into a nest, the Boomers set off an explosion that shook the ground with tremendous force. A rush of high-speed hot air radiated from the site, sending some of us flying through the air. I was knocked into one of the preexisting demonstration holes. Horrified, I thought something had gone wrong. I emerged from the dusty hole to find the Boomer girls jumping up and down with excitement.
Aside from the larger fireworks, the Boomers also specialized in making a muscular version of firecracker bricks. Exaggerating the size and blast power of the standard cylinders, the Boomers had formulated firecrackers that had the punch of a series of M-80s. Available in strings of ten, twenty-five, and fifty shots, the bricks were a big hit with my father. Al ordered a few dozen of each, and I knew from the gleam in his eye that most would never reach the retail market. He would use them for his personal entertainment.
From Bombs to Beer
The Boomers fed my father’s love of fireworks but they also dabbled in other types of crime. Aside from the fireworks, moonshine, and ammunition, the Boomers were always on the lookout for any unexpected windfall that usually took the form of stolen goods. Appearing suddenly in the store on an early summer day, the eldest Boomer girls, Sherry and Moonshine, approached my father about buying a truckload of beer. Al, busy calling layoffs to a bookie up the chain, was not interested. He told them to call before next coming into town.
Undaunted by my father’s lack of enthusiasm, they perched on some boxes and waited for him to finish his business. I inquired about their parents and learned that Captain Morgan had indeed gotten his wish. Jameson Boomer was now the center of their feminine criminal world. Listening to their conversation and observing their body language, I got the impression that the stolen beer was just part of the problem. I excused myself and exited the store to find the object of their discomfort: a refrigerated beer truck sat in the bus stop directly in front of the store. Given that there were several bars on the block, this was not an unusual sight. Still, as I understood immediately, the truck put us in a precarious situation.
I entered the store just as Al hung up the phone. I pointed to the street outside. My father’s eyebrows went up as he grasped the situation. Flipping his eyeglasses atop his head, something he always did when he needed to clarify something, he inquired, “Girls, where did you get the beer?”
“Found a whole truckload just up the road,” Sherry Boomer replied gleefully.
Quickly becoming annoyed, Al asked, “Where’s the truck?”
“Right out front. Left the truck running to keep the beer cold. Are you interested or not?” Moonshine brashly inquired.
Amazed at their foolishness and overconfidence, Al uncharacteristically growled, “Let me get this straight. You stole a truck full of beer, drove it to Jeannette, and parked it in front of my store?”
“Yeah,” Sherry responded.
“Are you crazy? Get that truck out of here now, and don’t ever pull another stunt like this,” Al raged. “It’s peak fireworks season. We’re expecting a raid at any moment and you bring a stolen truck here! Get out, now!”
“Okay, Al, we’re leaving. Please don’t tell our dad. Let’s keep this between us,” they begged.
Getting up as if to go after them, Al screamed, “Now! And don’t ever bring me anything again!”
The Boomer girls, unused to my father’s fury, hit the ground running. Within minutes, the stolen truck sped off down the avenue. My father then ordered me to go uptown and buy the Greensburg, Jeannette, and Pittsburgh newspapers. When I inquired why he wanted them, he barked, “Don’t ask, just do!”
Grabbing some money from the cash register, I did as requested. I returned a few minutes later with the papers and gave them to my father. Handing them back, he instructed, “Look through them for anything about a beer truck being stolen. Hopefully no one got hurt in the process.”
I had stated my concerns about the Boomer clan on many
occasions, and could not pass up the opportunity to press my point. “When you deal with wild animals, you shouldn’t be surprised when they turn on you.”
He ignored my sarcastic barb and instead repeated his request in a sweeter voice. I obliged but found nothing about a stolen truck. My father was so concerned that he had me pick up the papers for the next few days. Thankfully, there was nothing to report and Al seemed relieved. Although the episode set him on edge, it did not prevent future dealings with the Boomer clan. Their fireworks were just too good to pass up.
Al was obsessed with fireworks not only for their huge profit margins, but also for his love of play. The Fourth of July was his favorite holiday. He often hosted fireworks parties in which he topped off an evening of feasting with huge pyrotechnic displays. Given that fireworks were first invented and used by the Chinese to ward off evil spirits and welcome prosperity and happiness, I have often pondered my father’s love of this explosive entertainment. Al was aware of their history and used to speak of them chasing off the evil jinn his mother feared had followed them from Syria.
The smell of spent fireworks signaled the disbursement of bad energy and implied a prosperous step forward. In many ways, the Fourth of July was my father’s New Year. It marked closure on the past and a celebration of hope for the future. Al would go to great lengths to acquire the best and most ground-shaking fireworks. He had many sources to supply his need.
Hide and Seek
Running for fireworks was always an adventure. When Al commanded my presence, I never knew where we were going or what class of fireworks we were running. Because fireworks were illegal in Pennsylvania, there was always concern for an unexpected encounter with the police during the return trip home. Once the illegal merchandise was ensconced in the store, we waited for the inevitable raid. Running for fireworks was only part of the risk; holding onto them during a raid was another matter. Managing to escape the police both at home and on the road was the ultimate challenge.
It was during the course of one particular raid that I ended up trapped in a hidey-hole underneath the basement steps of the store. During fireworks season, we took necessary precautions to ensure the higher-end merchandise was hidden in the hidey-hole, a small, secret room that could only be entered through the toilet area of the basement. The entrance was cleverly hidden by the tongue-and-groove wooden paneling that covered the wall to the left of the toilet. For those not “in the know,” the doorway could easily be overlooked during a raid. Although we routinely left the misdemeanor-level merchandise sitting around the basement, we almost always stowed the higher-end, felony-level merchandise in this tiny hidden room. In the event of a raid, the door would be secured leaving the police to confiscate the lesser charge contraband scattered around the basement.
During the busy weeks leading up to the Fourth of July, I could most often be found in this tiny room, lit only by a single, string pull light with a naked bulb. Call in and walk in orders were taken on slips of paper upstairs and then brought downstairs for me to fill. The process was not unlike going to a pizza shop and placing an order to go. Instead of a box with a steamy pie, our customers would receive neatly stapled paper bags, their sizes depending on the order, with a shorthand code scribbled on the bag to indicate the content, customer’s initials, and the last four digits of their phone number. Upstairs, Al, Bonnie, or an employee would check the code against the order and collect the cash. It was a simple but effective process.
The hidey-hole was not the best of working conditions. Still, it afforded me alone time, so I would often volunteer to take a shift in the dark, musky, cramped room. Of course, my size also made me the best candidate for the job, as it was uncomfortable for most of the adults who worked for my father.
If I was on a run, my small-framed friend Jay was called in to take the shift. Handling fireworks for hours on end resulted in what I called a “gunpowder bath.” Jay or I would emerge from a day in the hidey-hole covered with the gunpowder that leaked from the explosive merchandise. After one particularly long day in the hole, Jay emerged wearing layers of gunpowder. He looked at all the smokers congregating in the store, and hilariously quipped, “Don’t anyone light a fuckin’ cigarette!”
Fireworks raids were practically an annual event, so much so that when one failed to materialize we were somewhat disappointed. Although deeply ensconced in the basement filling orders, I was usually warned of an incoming raid by someone activating the buzzer just outside the entrance of the store. If circumstances made that impossible, the noisy entrance of the police usually presented me with time to escape and secure the hidey-hole. More than once, I managed to fasten the secret door and emerge upstairs just as the police were approaching the basement stairs.
On the day I found myself locked in the hidey-hole, I had just been handed a stack of orders by a newly hired employee when I heard the familiar noise of a launching raid. Ordering the newbie to hand me the filled orders from the table to his right, I turned inward and placed them on a shelf in the far end of the hidey-hole. Turning back, I was astonished to see the door sliding into place. Panicking, the green worker secured the door of the hidey-hole with me still inside. I pounded on the door for him to let me out but received no answer. The employee had freaked out, run upstairs, and pretended to be a customer. Since he was unknown to them, the police sent him on his way. He left without telling anyone where I was, happy to escape.
I listened to the racket upstairs, quietly trying to determine when the police were heading in my direction. Hoping that the newbie had properly secured the faux door from the outside so that it would not be detected, I shut the light off and settled in for the remainder of the raid. A few minutes later, I could hear the police descending the basement stairs. Looking through one of the peepholes placed low in the wall, I watched as they ripped through boxes and carted off the contraband. Unfortunately, I also witnessed one of the cops, whom my mother ironically referred to as “the little prick,” take a leak in the toilet only a few inches from my hiding place. He was my least favorite cop on the force. I was not surprised when he did not bother to lift the seat. Hmm…little prick, indeed!
A half-hour later, the cops disappeared up the stairs. I was again alone in the basement. Knowing that they could return for a second look, I sat in the dark, musty silence of the hidey-hole. As business usually commenced almost immediately after a raid, I was sure I would be released shortly. Another thirty minutes ticked by. I turned the light on and began filling orders. Although busy, I was not a happy camper. How was it possible that no one had missed me? Unaware that the newbie was long gone, I fumed.
By the time I finished filling the orders, I was beyond furious. Nonetheless, I was concerned that there might be law enforcement remaining on the premises. Finally, with my legs cramping and a pressing need to use the toilet, I decided to take action by systematically tapping on the underside of the stairs. After ten minutes or so, I heard the familiar voice of a regular gambler yelling for my father, “Hey, Al, I think one of the cops is still in the basement!”
A few minutes later, my father appeared. Seeing him through the peephole, I yelled, “Dad, get me out of here!” Al removed the “door” and I popped out, awash in gunpowder. “What the hell is going on? I’ve been in there for over two hours!”
Laughing, Al realized that the green employee had taken off without alerting anyone that I was still in the basement. In the ensuing chaos, my father thought that I had left the store. My skin crawling with explosive residue and my ire ready to explode as well, I swept passed him, went home, and took a long hot bath. Since the raid, I had been the target of one joke after another.
I Need a Jump!
Shortly after the hidey-hole incident, I accompanied my father on a run to Pittsburgh that stands out vividly as an adventure in mayhem, in part because I never should have been on it in the first place. Aside from the colorful and unpredictable runs to the Boomer lair, Al often made trips to Pittsburgh, West Virginia, and Ohio in pu
rsuit of his favorite contraband. The months leading up to the Fourth of July were grueling. A normal workday would often stretch beyond twelve hours and was always fraught with the chance of a raid. In an attempt to keep my sanity, I had negotiated a day and a half each week to spend on my own: half a day on Sunday and a floater day during the week.
I took my day off very seriously but Al would often “forget” or “need” me. He would inevitably come looking for me. On this particular occasion, Al found me relaxing in our tiny backyard intent on getting a tan, clad only in a bathing suit, and completely absorbed in Robert Ludlum’s novel The Matarese Circle. I was so occupied with US intelligence agent Brandon Scofield’s cabal-fighting adventure that I was at first oblivious to my father’s presence. Al’s voice ripped me from my otherworldly escape. I looked up to find him hanging over the fence. He had to make a run and needed me to go with him.
Reminding him that it was my day off all work, whether legit or not, I refused. A frustrated Al barked at me to get in the car and promised I would be home within two hours. Defiant, I again refused. Al persisted.
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