Every so often somebody who’s just bought a nice house on Water or Queen Street – and whose realtor somehow failed to mention the firehouse siren – will call up Town Hall and want to know why something shouldn’t be done about that sound. This person immediately becomes known (but not to him-or-herself) as The Chair of The Committee to Do Something About The Siren. This unofficial appointment lasts only until the next person calls to protest that infernal noise. At least, that used to be so. Don’t ask me how I know this, but I’ve got my sources. So, I’m thinking about doing a little piece that makes some sport of folks in fine neighborhoods and the Fire Department, too, when I go to bed the other night. I won’t say it’s the last thought in my mind, but it’s rattling around in there among things to do real soon, as I fall asleep.
Beep-beep-beep-beep-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-FIRE-FIRE-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-FIRE. . .
Huh? Whatthe? Fire? Fire! There’s smoke everywhere. I can hardly see, I can hardly breathe. So naturally I go to the back door and wait to be let out. Takes Old John forever to hear the smoke-alarm but he finally does, lets me out and stumbles around, muttering. He sees it’s the wood stove that’s clogged somehow and the smoke is backdrafting. And now — figuring we’re out of immediate danger, he hesitates to call the fire department. Get this: he’s embarrassed about the attention it will bring; he’s worried it will wake the neighbors. His dithering lasts just a moment and he dials 9-1-1.
Right away, from every direction, we start hearing sirens. Soon there are 10 trucks parked up and down the street, motors rumbling, lights flashing and, yes, waking the neighbors. I look around and start counting, one. . .well counting’s not my strong suit, but Im told later there were a couple dozen volunteer firemen swarming around our house. It’s a half hour past a cold and windy midnight — and all these guys have been called out of bed to save us – and they’re volunteers — and they’re not being paid one thin dime for this — and I was about to write something making fun of Chestertown’s siren?
So they unclog the chimney, clean the coals out of the woodstove, open windows, clear the house of smoke (but not the stink) and they leave. Fire’s out, nothing to sign, nobody owed, no goodbyes, no thanks necessary.
Next morning though, we call the Chestertown Volunteer Fire Department to express our gratitude and happen to get Deputy Chief Phil Russum. He was at my house, he says, “and my son was up on your roof.” Chief Bruce Neal was there, too. In fact there were volunteer firemen from four companies — Chestertown, Church Hill, Crumpton and the rescue squad as well. And as far as they’re concerned, what they did for us is routine. The Chestertown company, for example, answered over 600 calls last year, and my house was number 507 for this year.
Russum has been turning out for fires going on 40 years, was a junior volunteer when he was 14 years old. His father did it before him. His son does it now and will after. There are some answering fire calls here who are fourth generation volunteers. Fire-fighting is very much, and almost exclusively, a family tradition. It’s the same way with Galena, Rock Hall, Crumpton, Church Hill, with every company everywhere. Russum says it is very hard to recruit new members who don’t have it in their ancestry. It’s curious, but true.
I don’t have the nerve to tell Russum I was about to write a spoof about the siren on top of the Chestertown Fire House, but I do ask him about it, kind of sly. And guess what? “It’s dead,” he says. “It was put up in ’63, but it broke last year, and we can’t find parts for it. The one folks hear, that’s up by the college. It goes off — if the fuse doesn’t blow. Now, we’re relying on pagers, mostly. The old siren, we can’t get it fixed. And people who live around the fire house are probably thankful.”
Probably some are. Me? Not so much, anymore. Once your house is about to go up in smoke, and maybe you in it, you’ll find there’s something to be said for whatever traditions it takes that brings these folks out on fiery nights. You hear that wailing, you know they’re on their way, it’s a comfort.
Marty Stetson says
When I read the first couple of lines under opinion caption the first thing that went through my mind, “wait until its your house.” Reading the entire story you said it for me, so just keep this for the next guy who calls in to complain. Our fire company does so much for us anyone who complains is just not a thinking person.
Fifi says
Bravo, Chestertown VOLUNTEER firefighters! And, thanks, Tallulah, for such a good story and for saving John. I used to live practically next to the firehouse (when the siren was working) and, I don’t know, call me an idiot, but I kinda thought the sound was part of the zeitgeist of the ‘hood. Ya know – it goes with the territory.
Thanks for calling attention to our brave volunteers.
jbg says
Tell them to go back to whee they came from and their “paid” firefighters! Which are getting knocked off right and left. We are very blessed to have such wonderful souls watching after us and our homes. Thank God for them and just “deal” with the noise. Maybe they could join the firehouse volunteer crews and get out of bed and help serve coffee and sandwiches, being they are already up?????
billa says
as your article began, i also think of the folks that move to high & mill st vicinity that are unaware of the bells of first methodist and think it is nuisance. i have lived across the street from those bells and across from the firehall, both are a part of the town’s charm and history. and having my druthers…i do prefer living across from the church and waking up on a sunday to a carillion of bells but even when i was on maple ave…frankly as you said the alarm could be startling, but likewise a comfort in a small town. The bells are a reminder that we can find a peaceful moment in our day….and the alarm that your neighbors are watching out for you in crisis…