CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX—FIRE IN THE PINES

    

Art Palmer, Jr. in driver's seat of fire department jeep.

      The Continental Village Volunteer Fire Department was organized in the fall of 1950. The first meeting took place at Art Palmer's house. I remember meeting Bill Aurick and Bert Carnum for the first time. I already knew Hank Wilhelm, Hans Schmidt and Al Lazar and other founding members. Later when the volunteers purchased "Old Betsy," the first fire truck, it was temporarily stored in an old barn near our house while the volunteers cleaned and prepared a silo barn near the Clubhouse to shelter the old 1920 Mack pumper. My brother John and I helped clean the silo barn.

     My brother and I were also present during some of the early training exercises, which usually occurred on weekends. We practically begged our step-father to be allowed to attend these events, and we promised him that we would "stay on the sidelines," which we did. The adult volunteers all took turns learning to drive the Mack pumper. It had a push-button starter. In the beginning they filled it with water from Spy Pond but later used water from Sprout Brook for their drills. Eventually they bought and used brooms and portable Indian water tanks to extinguish brush fires. They bought dress uniforms for parades and special events. Later they bought a jeep and my brother John was among the first to drive it.

     One prank-filled Halloween evening my brother John "borrowed" the fire department jeep and with some classmates went on a pumpkin-throwing spree near Peekskill High School. He claimed that he returned the jeep to the firehouse and nobody knew that it was missing.

     In the summer of 1951 Continental Village was growing. More houses had been built in the open fields and in the pines that circled the lake. More houses meant more people. The Fergusons and Gelbs moved into new houses on opposite sides of Putnam Road just south of the Zeliph's house. The DeStefano family moved into a new house on Sprout Brook Road a few lots south of the Croft's house. I knew Danny Ferguson and Gerald and Geraldine DeStefano [family name may be misspelled]. We met on the school bus and got to know each other.

     In the summer my friends and I played softball in a vacant lot behind the Ferguson's house. We were sometimes short the required 18 players. No one cut the tall grass, so we played on it and it was trampled down over time. We batted toward the Ferguson’s house and one of the ballplayers hit a ball that broke a window in the house. I don't remember who paid for it. Most likely, the Fergusons.

     During one of these softball games someone got the idea to explore the pines near the Gelb's house in the vicinity of No. 49 Putnam Road. Several of the boys crossed Putnam Road and walked through an empty lot into the pines. After walking a short distance through the pines we came to a clearing. We could see the dirt road that led from Highland Drive to the lake dam at the bottom of the hill. There were no houses built here. McDougal Lane had not been given a name. Thirty feet from the edge of the clearing on the hill, we decided to build a hut in the pines.

     We commenced building this hut on the spot chosen, and it was completed by nightfall. It was shaped like a tepee. We had collected several narrow, dead pine trees, arranged them in a circle around a single dark green tree, and placed them at an angle against the upper branches of the tree. We filled in the gaps with short pine branches, and pine needles scrapped off the ground with our hands. When we had finished Wayne Matthews asked a logical question: "How do we get inside?" We forgot to leave a space for a door. In a short time we had cleared a space and made an opening for an entrance. "Done," he said.

     Within a few days we added snacks and cans of soda and a deck of playing cards which we kept inside a knapsack in the hut. But it was intolerably dark inside the hut and we couldn't see to play cards. We had matches and readers can probably guess what happened next, but I will explain how it happened and more.

     It was a hot Saturday in July when my friends and I decided to spend some time in the new hut.  We forgot to take a flashlight. After we arrived, I watched Paul Kuty strike a match and light a small pine tree stem held in his other hand. He held it up and admired it. Pine needles had been cleared from the floor of the hut earlier, so Paul took the lighted stem, about a foot in length, and stuck one end of it in the ground. Now we had light.

     But these short broken stems of flame did not last more than a minute or two. When the first "candle" went dark, Paul lighted another one. I wasn't watching him closely to see exactly what part of a pine tree he was burning. I thought it was the long needles. I lit some needles on a short stem, and immediately they were burning my hand. Not a smart move. I lifted my hand, attempting to throw the burning stem down on the ground. Instantly the wall of the hut caught on fire and the fire spread quickly. All of my friends got outside, and we started to fight the fire. I don't remember what was said in this emergency. Before we tore down the tepee completely, flames were already reaching into the dark green pine tree overhead. It was a moment of deep concern. If this tree had caught fire, the entire pine forest would burn. One of the boys was dispatched to tell the Gelbs and phone the fire department. The others were busy scraping the pine needles away from the base of the green tree, clearing more ground to limit the spread of fire.

     Fortunately, the flames receded just as quickly as they had started. Hand-scrapping the ground to remove pine needles, we put charred wood and burning embers on the ground which had been cleared. We worked furiously. It was literally a blur of movement. 

     A puff of smoke was still rising over the pines when the fire department with Old Betsy arrived at the Highland Drive bridge over Sprout Brook. The fire truck was parked near McDougal Lane. Three firemen jumped out and came running up the hill with portable Indian tanks. Chief Arthur Palmer was one of them.

     At this time the fire was practically out. We boys did not stay to greet the out-of-breath firemen when they arrived. We scattered in every direction.

     Most of the boys went home. I did not. I could not face my step-father after the fire. The Gelb family knew most of the boys by name. I was sure to be be identified.

     After wandering around without any food, I got hungry. I remembered that Cliff Holmes and I had stored a few cans of food at a cave some distance from his house on Gallows Hill. The cave was located near a still pond off the crest of Gallows Hill. Cliff Holmes, Winifred Zeliph, my sister and I had stopped there often when hiking and exploring Gallows Hill.

     I walked up the hill on an old footpath that began at Sprout Brook Road near the Holmes' house. The entrance to this unnamed cave was large enough for young people to enter while standing. It was a small v-shaped cave created by two large boulders leaning against one another. There was a second entrance or exit just large enough for someone to crawl through. This second entrance also allowed light inside the cave during the day. At night, however, the cave was pitch black.

     I found a can of pork and beans and a can opener which, I discovered later, my sister Eustelle left in the food cache. I ate the contents of the can. Then I wandered around the area until nightfall and returned to the cave. I had a rough night trying to sleep there. I woke up several times thinking about snakes. There were copperheads, rattlers and black snakes living on this hill.

     I left the cave when the sun came up. I walked to the lake and early in the afternoon I met some of my friends at the beach. I told them about my experience in the cave. I asked them if they knew what occurred after we left the fire. I was told me that the firemen were grateful that the fire was extinguished when they arrived at the scene. Wayne Matthews overheard his father talking about the fire. No one at the fire department was angry, Wayne told me.

     I felt relief, possibly gratitude, and decided to risk a confrontation with my step-father. I left the beach and returned home about 5 P. M. It was suppertime. I was hungry but on edge as I walked into the house. My mother greeted me at the door.

     "Where have you been? I was worried to death about you," she said.

     "I spent the night in the cave on Gallows Hill," I confessed.

     My step-father then appeared at the kitchen entrance. I was still standing by the front door, ready to bolt if he intended to punish me.

     "It's Gene the bean," he said with a smile. "I hope you and your friends learned something about fire."

     I was instantly relieved. 

     Sometimes my step-father would call me Gene the string bean, because he judged that I was underweight. Years later, when I was serving in the United States Navy, he called me Gene the Navy bean. His sense of humor was benign, never mean.

     I sat down and ate supper with my family. I found out quickly that my friends and I were not outcasts. We were not heroes either. I was surprised to hear words of praise from Fire Chief Arthur Palmer, speaking to my mother, for the conduct of "those young firebugs who removed burning dead wood and pine needles from the base of a pine tree, and prevented a much larger fire."

     A few years ago, as I drove through Continental Village, I saw that patch of pine trees still in place. My conscience rests peacefully now.