Thursday, September 30, 2010
Dad use to call these fireboxes. At one time they were on every street corner in the city. The gang in the neighborhood would often tempt fate by lifting the small door and then replacing it gently. I wanted no part of that. I said it would be just my luck that someone would push me, and I'd drop it breaking the glass. If that ever happened to me, the ringing would still be echoing in my ears and that image of the that red truck, maybe on two wheels, as it screeched off of Arbor Street onto Stevens would be etched in my mind forever. We lived quite close to the fire barn and many a night I was awaken from slumber by the haunting wailing of the trucks off to a fire. When the fire horn sounded, it sent shivers through my body, because Dad always said, "It's a big one."