Jim Hession, guest columnist to Ipswich Chronicle, 1/13/2000
"Another funeral," I said to myself as I turned my car onto the street that runs down to Newburyport center. I often travel this route, which passes the Roman Catholic church that fills the block. Instead of the usual empty row of spaces the road was filled with cars from a funeral procession. The hearse and the limousines for the family were parked and ready to lead the way. A flash of red struck my eye. The early winter's day had not yet yielded a touch of sunlight and the cold, hard gray light blended all of the vehicles together. But one vehicle stood out -- a shiny, red fire truck.
My first reaction connected the scene to the recent tragedy in Worcester in which six firefighters lost their lives fighting a fire in an abandoned warehouse. Two of them entered the building after a report of homeless people living there. Those two became trapped and four more entered to save them. All fell, leaving 17 fatherless children.
The funerals for those lost men were large public displays. Firefighters from around the country rallied in support of their fallen brethren. This display in Newburyport was too small to be connected -- just one small fire truck. And yet I am sure that someone was rendered fatherless in Newburyport, too.
The fire truck was not of recent vintage. It was too small and too rounded. Today's trucks are large and have sharp angles with boxy noses. This truck I recognized as from the 50's, from the era of my childhood. On most days in the late 50's I walked by the firehouse in my hometown. I never did go inside. My cub scout den never made the trip. I would stop across the street and peer in at the vehicles. Only the front of the trucks showed in the late afternoon light; the rest faded into the shadows of the barn. Those big, rounded fenders were perfect for reflecting light and pulsed as shiny as a new red apple. They were safe. They were always there and ready in case there was a fire at my house. My family was safe. I was safe.
At the funeral, the fire truck had been transported from a different time. Here, 40 years later, it stood out as a red marker in the last ritual of life. Black is the ordinary color of death, and yet the deceased, or someone on his behalf, chose red to be his signature. I know nothing about this deceased. I prefer to make it all up. I believe that this was his antique fire truck. Somehow the love of a child for things big and loud and red was never lost in him. He retained that playful glee and drove his truck in parades to share his childlike feeling with others. It would be only fitting that his favorite toy be at his last public performance.
One other detail must be mentioned -- the fire truck was covered with flowers. The incongruity of this splash of colors and softness was shocking. This truck, which in its heyday carried many men on saving missions and perhaps on missions that cost them their lives, was covered with flowers. This symbol of his childhood and of his life was a final resting place for the beauty of this world.
I bet the deceased would have smiled. No, he would have been jumping up and down with glee. His toy had been transformed into something he had never considered. It lit up the lives of all those who drove past it that day -- even in death, a serious, playful reminder of the joy of living.
Musings: a few captured thoughts on the romance and mystery of those old fire engines
Sounds
J. Chadbourne, 1989
All is peaceful. The only sound is the whir of the Coke machine. A window pane rattles as the wind buffets one of the six garage doors. Suddenly, a klaxon blares out. There is a loud CLANG-CLANG-CLANG as the alarm sounds. All across town, men are awakened to the insistent BEEP BEEP of pagers.
All is again quiet in the building. After a few moments, there comes the thud and scrape of the first sleepy man trying to unlock the door. The building is filled with the sound of recently-awakened men stumbling inside. The air is filled with an urgent purpose, accompanied by the clomp of ill-fitting boots and the swish of fire-resistant coats.
There is the click of a switch, and the interior of the building is illuminated by flashing red and white lights. If anyone were listening, he would hear the soft whir of rotating beacons and the protesting 'pwee-pwee' of strobe lights, cold from days of non-use. No one is listening.
The walls of the building shake as the great, twelve-foot wide doors rumble up out of the way, and the air is filled with the clamor of "Low Oil" warning bells. With a ferocious roar, the Diesels come alive. The hiss of air brakes is the last sound to be heard before the scream of the siren drowns out all else. The deep bass of the air horn is added to the cacophony, as the trucks disappear down the street in a cloud of black smoke.
Eventually the sirens and horns fade away, and all is peaceful again. The building is left to itself, with only the few leaves blown through the open doors and a lingering smell of Diesel fuel to indicate that anyone has passed this way.