HOT TIMES I have always been an admirer of volunteer firemen. There has always been a special a about them. They were brave men, just as workers in various fields of employment have proved to be - such as the miners of West Virginia's coal fields and other areas where we dig our riches from the Earth. They are more “caring”, one might put it without slighting anyone else. They started earlier, they had close family ties, they were concerned about household treasures of all kinds – both tangible and unseen – and what they did convinced them they actually touched people; rally made difference.
Perhaps part of my feeling stems from the fact that the first fire company I remember was something a bit less than what a good fire department might have been. We looked at it in a sort of “Keystone Kops” way and did the best we could with what we had at hand.
The Fire House was an old garage corner of the Court House and the Fire Chief and his wife had rooms above so they were close to our only vehicle - a used unit from a nearby city's used fire trucks lot. When a fire call came in one of them grabbed the telephone to determine the exact location of the blaze. The Chief would mount the high seat of the red truck; kick the motor to life and week a small latch on the dashboard which triggered his own, personal siren which screamed a high-pitched as if attempt to outdo the one roaring from Court House roof.
Our town was odd one that it was strung out for five miles along a big river on shelve it left behind as it carved into stone cliffs on the other side.
The town was divided into “East End”, “Central”and “West End” and that second siren was of important for those who lived in the central part of town. We could ell pretty much where a fire was by listening. If the siren continued steadily it meant the Chief and had turned up the steep hill in front of the Court House and hate was staying in the midtown section. I remember one ho day,however,when it didn't work so well. We boy knew for fact , that the fire had to be in East End. He would pass in a moment or so. Suddenly, the siren scream sickened and died away – completely. That could only mean he had stopped in mid-town “Central” which rapidly became a tragic thing. We looked for smoke but saw none as we ran toward the imagined fire. When arrived, there was the Fire engine and the Fire Chief was standing beside it under the shady canopy of the Sinclair Service Station. He was carefully topping-off the tank, so he could get along on to that fire in East End. Took good care of that truck, Chief did. Good thing he noticed the gas dial said: “Low”,or he may not have made it to the fire in East End.
A.L.M. January 21, 2006 [c511wds]
