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I remember vividly the run-ups to Bommie Nights, when we lived in Walton, wrote Jacqui Glowacki (nee Hurley) who was born at Dovecot, Liverpool in 1944.
It was always a competition between the kids on each street to see who had the most wood and could make the best bonfire. We weren't beyond stealing each other's wood if we could find out where the other streets were storing theirs -- or of taking the odd loose door or picket out of a fence either, come to that.
Collecting the wood was one task we enjoyed, collecting pennies for the Guy so we could buy extra fireworks was another. Every street would make their own Guy Fawkes, stick it in an old pram or an old push chair and go from door to door, asking, 'A penny for the guy, please?'
One year we didn't have the makings for a Guy Fawkes so we made one of the little kids sit in the pram, put a mask on him, a woolly hat and mittens. Then we stuck some straw up their trouser legs and left some hanging out of his coat sleeves and used him.
We didn't do too badly until, with one lady about to give us a penny, our 'Guy Fawkes' moved. The lady got mad, yelled and we all took off, leaving the pram and the poor Guy on the lady's doorstep.
Then, of course, there was the street's 'News of the World' as we called them .... the street gossip who had eyes in the back of her head, knew everything you did and reported it to your parents. We waited all year to get even with these people.
Older now, I realise how dangerous it was, what could have happened but, back then, we couldn't wait to put a rip-rap through her letterbox and run like merry hell. Houses with 'vicious' dogs weren't beyond the same treatment either, I'm ashamed to say.
One year, Norman Wickstead, who was always tinkering with things, decided to make himself a crossbow, which was fine until he decided to put a banger in it and shoot it into the air. Well, when he pulled the crossbow back, the banger went off prematurely right in Norman's face and he ended up in St Paul's Eye Hospital with haemorrhages behind his eyes and missed Bommie Night completely.
Bonfire Night itself though never let us down. It was always worth all our hard work. With the odd parent or two looking on to make sure the fire didn't get out of hand, we'd heap the wood on, put Guy Fawkes on top and a loud cheer would go up when the flames caught.
Fireworks would get set off. Everything from bottle rockets to Roman Candles to Pinwheels to Roman Fountains and then, when everyone's fireworks had gone, out would come the old spuds and forks and we'd roast them till they were black with soot - then eat them with much relish.
Our hands and our faces would be black with soot when we went inside --but we were smiling. Oh yes, we were smiling.
On the rare occasions when I'm home and can walk down the street where I lived, I still can't help but smile and think of all those Bommie Nights as I stand at the end and gaze down the street.
You see, our Bommie Nights left their mark. To this day, every tree on that street is bald and charred on the street side from where it was singed so many years ago.
Jacqui Glowacki, Florida, USA
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