Here's a glimpse at something else in our world that is quickly racing towards extinction: the street firebox. I grew up being quite respectful of these red boxes that used to be scattered liberally around our city streets. I saw fires take houses. I remember the one on Warren Avenue that started with the owner working his acetylene torch in the garage. I felt so sorry seeing the firemen fight the blaze, with the mom holding two small children in the street. I remember the fire call the evening of July 12, 1960, when Ladder 3 and Engine 4 crashed at Woodford's Square and took the life of a firefighter. Pulling a false alarm? Dad told me this. No, he commanded me! Don't you EVER think about it! Don't put your stinking hands on one! Don't you even try looking at one! Just walk on by, fast! He knew my friends and me too well. As a matter of fact, Dad just about scared the bjesus out of me, when it came to these things. I used to break out in a cold sweat every time the gang and I walked by one. I might have even got the shudders. I'm still a little nervous when I walk by an alarm inside, on a wall of a public building. Another life lesson taught by a loving father in the rip-roaring, rockin' 50's. Thanks Dadl!