When spring came around in 1967,I was back to doing all the things I'd been doing in the warm weather months for as long as we'd moved to Moncton. We were still splitting our time between home and the babysitters place through the days. I went to the place on Crandall Street where the anthill had been, because I was still fascinated with ants.I'd had my mother check out books about ants out of the bookmobile several more times, and had been waiting for them to make a reappearance.Only they didn't. They were gone.There were still ants around, but not in the old spot where I used to play. I saw the kid who had stopped by and incinerated the ant with a magnifying glass back in the fall too, but he never even bothered to say hello.
The other constant in the neighborhood were fire trucks.They still came racing up Crandall Street to the corner of Snow Avenue where the fire box was.Often it happened over the noon hour,and was almost certainly a false alarm turned in by some of the kids going back to the school. Fire trucks still fascinated me.They were about the most exciting thing that ever happened in our neighborhood.
My father took me up to see the fire box one time, because he wanted to point something out to me.It was likely a part of getting me prepared for first grade, but I didn't really see it that way.He pointed out the box, a bit too high up on the pole for me to reach, and explained to me how it worked. There was a handle on the box,and if you pulled it, an alarm went off in the firehouse and trucks were sent out. Even though I was not big enough, he wanted me to know that I should pull the handle on the box if I ever saw a fire. But only if I saw a fire. Never at any other time. He explained that when people pulled the alarm and there was no fire, it was possible that there would be a fire somewhere else while the firemen were busy at the false alarm, and that could cause someone to be burned or even to die.Even though I'd not developed a full appreciation of death,I knew that I did not want to be responsible for someone being hurt or killed.And my father told me in no uncertain terms that were that to happen, I would be responsible. Also,in my mind the idea of fire was still closely related to the idea of Hell, so that was a big part of why I never pulled the alarm.
Sometimes we would take short car trips in the afternoons on the days we stayed home with our father and when our mother was working.Late in the afternoon we would go pick her up, but sometimes we would go somewhere else first.The park,or the garden center, or the hardware store. One afternoon, we went to the fire station out on McLaughlin Drive.I had no idea that you could actually visit the fire station, but it was a great little field trip. Very exciting for two children four and six years old.
We were met by a fireman who welcomed us into the station house.He was not dressed like the firemen I'd seen that came to the firebox.He had on a neat white shirt with a number of patches on it, and a crisp pair of dark pants with a razor like crease in their legs.I got the impression that my father knew the fireman, which would not have been unusual, as Moncton was a really small town back then.We'd been to visit a man my father had called "Junior" and he'd always said the man was a fireman.But he was not at the station on the day we visited. This man took us for a walk through the fire station, showing us the firetrucks which were brilliant red,and as shiny as anything I'd ever seen.I could look into the red paint and see my reflection.The fireman explained that since there were not a lot of fires, the men got a lot of time to shine up the trucks, and he seemed very proud of the equipment.Along with all of the red fire trucks there was also a white one, something I'd never seen before.And it was just as bright as the red ones. For a while,the fireman stood around talking to my father about all the things the fire trucks could do: how much water it could pump, how many ladders it had and how long they were. How many axes they had.He showed us a really big chainsaw as well, something he said was for cutting metal.I was surprised at the array of equipment on the truck:so many different sorts of tools. Then, he let my sister and I sit up in the cab of one of the fire engines, and I was in seventh heaven.Nothing in the world could be better that being a fireman, I thought.They got to drive around in a big truck with a lot of flashing lights and sirens, and they got to put out fires so nobody would get burned or killed.Sometimes they even got to rescue people, and that seemed very exciting.So, immediately I wanted to be a fireman when I grew up. The first thing I though I could do,once I became a fireman,was go to Springhill and put out that stinking pile of burning coal slag.
Before we left the fire station, the fireman showed us some of the things that they were doing that was not really about fighting fires at all. In those days firemen and fire departments were closely associated with fighting Muscular Dystrophy. They raised money for the cause, and advertised the fact on both television and radio.There were posters all about Muscular Dystrophy all over the firehouse.I had no idea what Muscular Dystrophy was except that it was like having a kind of sickness that killed you when you were really young.So I liked the idea of fighting that kind of disease almost as much as fighting fires.
In the back of the firehouse the firemen had another project going on.There was a big room back there and it was all filled up with piles and piles of toys that were broken, or just old. The firemen in Moncton at that time collected old and broken toys and repaired what they could, then donated them to what my father called "under privileged children" so that they could receive Christmas gifts as well.I didn't really know what under privileged meant, but later my mother said in meant poor.So I though that it was a really great thing for the firemen to be doing, along with fighting both disease and fires, and reminding people not to smoke in bed, and fire fighters began to take on a status next to deity in my mind.
The other constant in the neighborhood were fire trucks.They still came racing up Crandall Street to the corner of Snow Avenue where the fire box was.Often it happened over the noon hour,and was almost certainly a false alarm turned in by some of the kids going back to the school. Fire trucks still fascinated me.They were about the most exciting thing that ever happened in our neighborhood.
My father took me up to see the fire box one time, because he wanted to point something out to me.It was likely a part of getting me prepared for first grade, but I didn't really see it that way.He pointed out the box, a bit too high up on the pole for me to reach, and explained to me how it worked. There was a handle on the box,and if you pulled it, an alarm went off in the firehouse and trucks were sent out. Even though I was not big enough, he wanted me to know that I should pull the handle on the box if I ever saw a fire. But only if I saw a fire. Never at any other time. He explained that when people pulled the alarm and there was no fire, it was possible that there would be a fire somewhere else while the firemen were busy at the false alarm, and that could cause someone to be burned or even to die.Even though I'd not developed a full appreciation of death,I knew that I did not want to be responsible for someone being hurt or killed.And my father told me in no uncertain terms that were that to happen, I would be responsible. Also,in my mind the idea of fire was still closely related to the idea of Hell, so that was a big part of why I never pulled the alarm.
Sometimes we would take short car trips in the afternoons on the days we stayed home with our father and when our mother was working.Late in the afternoon we would go pick her up, but sometimes we would go somewhere else first.The park,or the garden center, or the hardware store. One afternoon, we went to the fire station out on McLaughlin Drive.I had no idea that you could actually visit the fire station, but it was a great little field trip. Very exciting for two children four and six years old.
We were met by a fireman who welcomed us into the station house.He was not dressed like the firemen I'd seen that came to the firebox.He had on a neat white shirt with a number of patches on it, and a crisp pair of dark pants with a razor like crease in their legs.I got the impression that my father knew the fireman, which would not have been unusual, as Moncton was a really small town back then.We'd been to visit a man my father had called "Junior" and he'd always said the man was a fireman.But he was not at the station on the day we visited. This man took us for a walk through the fire station, showing us the firetrucks which were brilliant red,and as shiny as anything I'd ever seen.I could look into the red paint and see my reflection.The fireman explained that since there were not a lot of fires, the men got a lot of time to shine up the trucks, and he seemed very proud of the equipment.Along with all of the red fire trucks there was also a white one, something I'd never seen before.And it was just as bright as the red ones. For a while,the fireman stood around talking to my father about all the things the fire trucks could do: how much water it could pump, how many ladders it had and how long they were. How many axes they had.He showed us a really big chainsaw as well, something he said was for cutting metal.I was surprised at the array of equipment on the truck:so many different sorts of tools. Then, he let my sister and I sit up in the cab of one of the fire engines, and I was in seventh heaven.Nothing in the world could be better that being a fireman, I thought.They got to drive around in a big truck with a lot of flashing lights and sirens, and they got to put out fires so nobody would get burned or killed.Sometimes they even got to rescue people, and that seemed very exciting.So, immediately I wanted to be a fireman when I grew up. The first thing I though I could do,once I became a fireman,was go to Springhill and put out that stinking pile of burning coal slag.
Before we left the fire station, the fireman showed us some of the things that they were doing that was not really about fighting fires at all. In those days firemen and fire departments were closely associated with fighting Muscular Dystrophy. They raised money for the cause, and advertised the fact on both television and radio.There were posters all about Muscular Dystrophy all over the firehouse.I had no idea what Muscular Dystrophy was except that it was like having a kind of sickness that killed you when you were really young.So I liked the idea of fighting that kind of disease almost as much as fighting fires.
In the back of the firehouse the firemen had another project going on.There was a big room back there and it was all filled up with piles and piles of toys that were broken, or just old. The firemen in Moncton at that time collected old and broken toys and repaired what they could, then donated them to what my father called "under privileged children" so that they could receive Christmas gifts as well.I didn't really know what under privileged meant, but later my mother said in meant poor.So I though that it was a really great thing for the firemen to be doing, along with fighting both disease and fires, and reminding people not to smoke in bed, and fire fighters began to take on a status next to deity in my mind.
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