The Acrid Smell of Spent Fireworks

I remember that my dad was very methodical about fireworks. He would take Pam and I to a stand out in San Fernando, where they were allowed to sell a less lethal brand of fireworks called Safe 'N Sane. Basically, it was stuff that didn't shoot, fly, or explode beyond a pop. He'd buy the family assortment and we'd set it up in the backyard with bricks, boards, and old coffee cans. Mom and my grandparents would sit in lawn chairs after dusk and he'd light some sparklers for me and Pam, and light incense sticks called "punk" for my Mom, who loved the smell. I'm not really sure about that name, though, since I never heard anyone other than my parents call it punk. It's supposed to be a safe way to light your fireworks, but it never burned hot enough to ignite the fuses. He would need a cigarette to do the show, and I remember he would take a puff or two to get the cherry hot enough to light. He would go through them, one by one, the same way our family opened presents at Christmas--savoring each individual experience. He'd save the biggest fountain and the pinwheel, which would be nailed to a two-by-four on the roof of our playhouse, for last. After everything was all fired out, he'd run the hose over the whole lot just to be extra safe. It was my job the next morning to collect it all for the trash. I always took time to notice the particularly acrid smell of the spent fireworks and their charred colorful cardboard.