When I was younger, 9 or 10 years old, my dad and I would drive up to Wilkes-Barre to visit my great aunt Martha. She had wild white hair like a mad scientist and would take in lots of stray cats. One day she was singing Ukranian church hymns very loudly and walking around the kitchen, tossing cat food into the air like a flower girl at a wedding, and one piece flew right into my dad's coffee with a splash.
There was a boy down the street I used to play with; he was my "seasonal" friend. I remember going up to his room to listen to Michael Jackson's "Thriller."
I also remember that we liked to blow things up. He had some kind of firecracker or explosive device he had been saving and we decided to blow a hole in a fence near the baseball diamond. We planted it and ran and it exploded with a loud BOOM, and we didn't stop running til we got back to the house.
When I got home I was determined to blow up some things on my own home turf. I went to the public library and asked the librarian if they had any books on bombs. "You mean like a history of the bomb?" she asked. "No," I replied "how to make them." She did not appreciate my curious mind and showed me the door.