A few months ago, I wrote an entry about when I was 5 years old and pulled a fire alarm (see Where’s the Fire?) I have since decided that I want to tell this as personal story. That brings out the issue of writing for telling compared to writing for reading. Here is my attempt to rewrite the Where’s the Fire? account, into a more tellable version:
As a child I loved to climb. I would climb on anything that I had access to. There were large rocks on a hillside on one side of the park adjacent to our apartment building. These boulders weren’t very steep, but they were steep enough for me to climb. There was a a stone wall about 6 feet high on the park side and about 15 feet high on the side where an Old Methodist Home was. I would climb the wall from the park side and walk along its flat top. Jumping from the wall to piles of leaves or snow below was one of my favorite activities.
My parents would use a stepladder to retrieve things from cabinets that were about 6 feet off of the ground in our kitchen, but not me. By hoisting myself onto the kitchen sink, I could climb onto the counters nearby to retrieve what I wanted. Being small and weighing little kept me from breaking any counter or the sink when I did this. I loved to climb.
Though I never got hurt while climbing, that didn’t mean I didn’t get in trouble. When I was 5 years old, my father took me on a venture to the local branch of the Chemical Corn Bank. Since the bank was less than a ½ mile away, my father decided we would walk. The trip was all up hill. We crossed a few local streets and finally a big boulevard, Riverdale Avenue to where the bank was on the other side. When we got there, my father had to wait on line to make his deposit. My father who came from Germany, could be strict and demanding, but also could be disinterested and forgetful. While he was inside waiting, I roamed free. Free roaming the bank meant that I could go inside or outside the bank and just hang out until he was finished. It was a lot safer back then, so my father didn’t appear to be concerned as I left the bank and went outside without supervision.
Safe or not, I decided to explore the area immediately outside the bank. It was there, in front of the bank, a tall red structure, over two feet taller than I was and similar in shape to a queen’s chess piece, with a black handle near the box like assembly on its top, stood challenging me to make an attempt to reach its summit.
I couldn’t help but notice that I could climb onto the red structure at its base, possibly shinny up and reach the top. This was a worthy endeavor for any 5-year old.
I got a foothold on the edge, wrapped my arms around the structure, and slowly began to shinny up. As I neared the top I found that I could grab onto the handle for support. Unfortunately for me the handle wasn’t locked in position and my weight released it from its upright position to its horizontal position.
The resounding high-pitched alarm bell that went off when that fire alarm was pulled was enough to send me screaming. People came running out from the bank at the sound of the alarm, as did my father. It didn’t take him long to surmise what I had done. He was not a pleased.
“What were you thinking? Did you think it was a mailbox?” he shouted at me. To this day I remember him putting that question to me in a way that I realized was my only way out of what I had done. I still had no idea what the thing I pulled was but knew I had done a bad thing. . Still in tears, I just nodded my head in agreement. “Yes I thought it was a mailbox.”
Surprisingly, my father decided that he and I should leave the bank area and start walking home, before the fire trucks came. I never knew why my father did this. Was he afraid that he would be held responsible and jailed, or fined? Was he embarrassed and didn’t want to face anyone? We crossed Riverdale Avenue and were about a half block from the bank, when either conscience or the thought that we couldn’t get away with it, changed my father’s mind. He had us turn back and talk to the firemen as they arrived. The fireman gave me a short lecture about pulling false alarms. My five-year-old self was glad that I didn’t pull these firemen away from a real fire that day.
It was a long downhill walk home with my dad. On a positive note I did notice a lot more of those red boxes attached to poles. Just as we reached the steps to our apartment building I hesitated. I did not want to face my mother with the news. I asked my father if he could go in first and break the news to my mom. Whether or not I told my mother I’m not sure. My mother did enjoy telling the story to our relatives and friends. The event was written up in our local newspaper, The Riverdale Press. I still have the clipping.
July 16, 1956 – Riverdale Press
FIRE-FIGHTERS who swarmed to the Riverdale Branch of the Chemical Corn Exchange Bank the other day were called out by accident. A customer transacting some business left his young son unattended for a moment. Junior climbed up to the fire alarm, pulled it, and really started something.
As for climbing, having gotten in trouble didn’t stop me. From that day on though, I made very sure that I knew what something was before I climbed it.
