In the late 1950s, the last days of June signaled the imminent arrival of the Independence Day celebration. The laid back, carefree routine of life without school had already comfortably settled in as we turned our attentions to the coming July 4th observance. Kids all over town were beginning to plan how they would celebrate the occasion. In other words, how they were planning to make the most noise. After all, it was one of the few days of the year that such raucous behavior was reasonably tolerated.

Basements had been scoured and a few back porches had been raided for days now in search of the empty soda bottles that each bore the bounty of a two-cent deposit. It was certain that money would be needed to fund the financial demands for what we hoped would be the loudest, most noise-filled extravaganza, to date. The usual profligate spending (five cents a pack) on baseball cards and bubble gum would have to be suspended until after this more pressing need was satisfied.

I too began to consider just what I could do to make the next Fourth most memorable. Completely forgetting I was a child barely eight, I failed to realize my choices were really quite limited. Then, there was my Dad's vehement opposition to firecrackers and fireworks of any kind. I clearly understood that to get caught with a firecracker would invite a punishment that wouldn't soon be forgotten.

Forewarned of the consequences, I became resigned to conduct a celebration that would be far more benign. The corner grocery stores were closely monitored for the latest devices designed to produce the loudest bang. There were the usual bombs and rockets, equipped with a single cap, that when thrown in the air detonated when they collided, nose down, with the pavement. They usually were regarded as too little "bang for the buck". Fortunately, since I was only eight, my trusty cap guns were still an appropriate alternative.

The 20-year period starting in 1945 is generally considered the Golden Age of cap pistols. It was a time when toy guns were made of metal and made to duplicate closely the real thing. When Roy Rogers, Hop-Along Cassidy and the Lone Ranger dominated Saturday morning TV, western-style cap guns were at the height of their popularity. So choosing my "six shooters" to make a little noise was not an unhappy decision. All that was required was an abundant supply of "bullets".

Rolled strips of paper caps served as the most common form of "ammunition". Caps were then, as they still are today, small amounts of actual gunpowder trapped between two thin layers of paper. The explosive mixture is concentrated in regularly spaced intervals that are arrayed 50 to 100 per roll of caps. The tightly wound roll is "loaded" inside the gun's chamber with the pill-sized concentration of powder positioned against the flat surface where it can be struck by the gun's hammer. Each pull of the trigger positions the powder and causes the hammer to strike the concentrated mix. Each explosion yields a flash, a loud report and a small puff of smoke. Repeatedly pulling the trigger causes the automatic advance of another bump of powder with the end result being a rapid succession of "gunshots".

The powder most frequently used in paper caps is known as Armstrong's Mixture. The primary ingredients are red phosphorus and potassium chlorate or potassium perchlorate. Sometimes small amount of sulfur and calcium carbonate are added. Make no mistake about it; this represents a highly explosive mixture that is highly sensitive to concussion, spark, and heat. Even though the amount used in paper caps is extremely small, some cap manufacturers today issue consumer warnings that the caps should not be carried in one's pockets for fear that sufficient heat and friction could build up to set off the mixture. But back in 1958 we had no such dire warnings.

The loud detonation, the sudden flash and the unmistakable smell of sulfur was sufficient to fuel a young boy's imagination. It was easy to conjure gunfights between cowboys and Indians or posse and rustler. Running battles in front yards and behind parked cars and tree trunks were noisily engaged in with neighborhood kids and their six-shooters. Gunfights with each gunslinger firmly convinced that he had, many times, "gotten" the other. "I got you", was the shout that invariably brought the equally vehement rebuttal, "Oh, no, you didn't". The verbal disputes were frequently louder and longer than the shootout itself. Still, a whole night's intended supply (50 caps to a roll and 5 rolls to a box) was frequently and exuberantly spent in an hour. Between the capfire and shouts, no fireworks of any other kind were needed. It's true that, when we sometimes grew bored, we tried to ignite an entire roll of caps with a rock, but the resultant bang never seemed to meet expectations. Reality was no substitute for a kid's imagination.

With the deepening of the twilight, peace was once more restored and the neighborhood settled softly into silence. The lighting of sparklers bejeweled the depth of the darkness and put a crown on the evening. With the sparklers carefully extinguished in a coffee can filled with water, we all went home tired, but contented. Though more powerful devices would in years to come usurp center stage, there is little I recall of those later evenings. Ask me my memories of those long ago Fourths in the Fifties and I'll most certainly tell tales of rolls of caps and my favorite six-shooters.

John LaRizzio