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.  

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE—SUBTLE STORYTELLER

     Clifford Holmes, Sr., was an excellent storyteller. His stories were never long-winded. They were concise and carefully crafted to leave the young listener deep in thought. Mr. Holmes worked for Fleischman's Yeast Company in Peekskill, N. Y. When he was home, he used to relax in the living room of his house and watch television or read anything available. He enjoyed TV sports programs, comedies and the news. Whenever his son Cliff and I showed up, he would invite us to sit down and watch television with him. If he turned off the television or put down a magazine, it was storytime.

     I remember two of his stories. He told a story about a lost silver mine in the Hudson Highlands which led Cliff and me on a wild goose chase. The other story terrified me more than the 1941 movie about Wolf Man.

     Mr. Holmes told us that there was an old silver mine not far from Continental Village. Eighty years ago, he said, the owner of the silver mine was robbed and killed outside a bar in Cold Spring, N. Y. Several iron ore miners knew about his claim. For several years they searched the Hudson Highlands for the mine but could not locate it. Eventually the searching stopped but the story was passed down to younger generations.

     Mr. Holmes told us that the mine was rumored to contain a vein of pure silver. He suggested that it still had a considerable amount of silver in it, as the owner had died before the mine was thoroughly worked. "It was told to me that it was located in the woods below a long ridge, just west of the Old Albany Post Road, but south of Graymoor," he said.

     This short teaser was sufficient for Cliff and me to think on it for several days. We believed every word of it. We swallowed the bait. We contacted our friends and enlisted Paul and Raymond Kuty, Wayne Matthews, Billy Wert, and others, and on a Saturday morning we began our search for the lost silver mine.

     My friends and I met at the Revolutionary War Monument in Continental Village at 10 A. M. We drank water from the spring and filled our single canteen. Not thinking that we would be hiking more than two hours, we did not carry snacks. Cliff and I took the lead and the other boys followed us on the Old Albany Post Road.

     We walked as far as Upland Drive, and followed this road a short distance. It was a dirt road at the time. I don’t remember any houses there. Less than 500 feet west of the Old Albany Post Road we found an old footpath which pointed north and we took it. It appeared to follow the direction of the post road, and we continued on this path, never passing over Old West Point Road but continuing west. How much further we hiked I cannot say. Unused for a long time, the path became more difficult to follow. At some large boulder in the woods we left the path. We crested a small ridge. Ahead we saw a valley and another hill. There were mutterings of discontent.

     "We ought to stop and go back," said Billy. He was the oldest boy in the group. "There’s nothing here," he said.

     This started a general conversation. So far we had seen nothing that resembled a mine. We saw a fox den in the crevice of two boulders early on, but that was all. We had been walking for two hours and we were hungry.

     Paul suggested that we mark a tree where we were standing and then search around our position on the ridge. If we found nothing we should return back home. All of the boys agreed, but only two, Cliff and I, left to search the ridge. We were gone only a few minutes when we found a narrow gauge railroad bed with ties still on it. The rails had been removed. A small cave or mine was located near the end of the railroad line.

     Cliff and I congratulated each other. We announced our discovery and called the other boys to join us. They came up quickly.

     We examined the old mining location. There was a large pool of water inside the cave. The water prevented further exploration. Was this an iron mine or a silver mine? How should we know?

     Billy Wert suggested that the mine was probably an iron mine like all the others in the area. Cliff Holmes disagreed.

     We stayed in the area about fifteen minutes. Our empty stomachs dictated the next move. We decided to go back home.

     On the way home we got so hungry that we ate some leeks which we found growing near a small spring in the woods. They seemed to satisfy our immediate hunger but by the time each one of us got home we had some serious indigestion.

     That night I was visiting with Cliff at his house and we told his dad about our discovery. He single comment was, "I don’t believe that mine you discovered was the silver mine." 

     Cliff's dad was watching the national news on television. He appeared to be deeply interested. "Did you hear that?" he exclaimed. "Flying saucers spotted in Washington, D. C. Two of them right above the White House!"

     Cliff and I were fascinated by the news. We did not notice how Mr. Holmes had changed the subject. Both of us were suddenly thinking about aliens inside flying saucers invading the earth.

     It was Saturday, July 19, 1952. UFO's had been seen in Washington, D. C. The story was broadcast in the national news for several days.

     Late in the afternoon, on the following day, I again visited at the Holmes’ house. Cliff and I cleaned his dugout hut and fed his pigeons. On invitation I ate supper with the family. In the evening Mr. Holmes sat down in his favorite chair in the living room and the entire family and I watched the Ed Sullivan Show on television. Mrs. Holmes, her daughters Lois and Edith, left the room at the end of the show. I don't remember anything about the Ed Sullivan Show, but I do remember vividly the conversation that followed.

     After the show, Mr. Holmes, Cliff and I remained in the living room. Mr. Holmes wanted to tell us something about the flying saucers that were reported on television networks over the weekend. He said that most of the news on Sunday was about UFO's sighted yesterday over Washington, D. C.  Mr. Holmes told us that early Sunday morning flying saucers were spotted over several towns in Pennsylvania and they were flying north. An Air Force spokesman predicted that they would fly over New York City and Westchester County by nightfall. There were other reports that flying saucers had landed in West Virginia, and aliens were seen on the ground amid glowing bright lights. People were reported missing near Harrisburg, Mr. Holmes said. I was a naïve kid who listened with growing interest and fear to every word he spoke. I did not see a trace of mischief in his face as he spoke.

     It was already dark outside when I said goodbye. I usually walked home from the Holmes' house. My house was not far away. But this night would be different. My mind was filled with aliens and flying saucers and danger, so in a state of panic I ran as fast as I could all the way home.

     Mr. Holmes probably imagined, but never saw or heard, his story's aftermath.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR—BARRACKS DISCIPLINE

   

Eugene, age 12, standing near Jefferson Memorial, Washington, D. C.

     The following year my aunt again asked my mother if John and I could spend two weeks at her home in Arlington, Virginia. I was twelve years old. I could go. However, my brother John had just obtained a senior life saving certificate and at age 17 he was hired to be the life guard at the Cortlandt Lake beach that summer. So my aunt asked her younger brother Bill Melville, who lived near Dover, Delaware, if he and his wife would permit their oldest son Jim to vacation at Arlington. Permission granted.

     Jim was 12 years old too. My aunt picked us up at the airport and we made the Washington, D.C., rounds again. On the following day my aunt drove us along the Blue Ridge Parkway to view the beautiful scenery. I think we went back to Mount Vernon and visited an amusement park across the Potomac river too.

     One incident stands out in my memory during that summer vacation in 1951. It involved Harmon, Katheryn, Jim and myself. One night, around 10 P.M., she told Jim and me to go to bed. The implied meaning, of course, was go to sleep. But it was a typical hot and humid summer night in Arlington, made worse by lack of air conditioning or overhead fan. Jim and I talked about our adventures and discoveries of the day. My aunt came back and again told us to go to sleep. Due to the extreme heat, Jim and I were naked on the bed, and I thought I saw her smile before she closed the door and returned to the living room. Jim and I started to laugh.

     Uncle Harmon was reading a book in the living room. My aunt was trying to read a book too. In less than five minutes my aunt went to our bedroom door a second time with the same worn-out request, and we just laughed again and continued talking after she left. I guess Harmon got riled or he just wanted to scare the hell out of us for the fun of it. Lt. Col. Reardon got up from his chair and came to the door and bellowed: "God damn it, shut up and go to sleep!"

     We were asleep in less than five minutes. He did scare the hell out of us. Many years later my aunt told me that Harmon's face had a broad smile as he returned to his chair and reopened his book. She said that she had smiled too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE—REMEMBERING KATHERYN AND HARMON REARDON

     In summer during fair weather, my brother John and I often walked a short distance from our house to the old apple orchard. We would lie down on top of deep matted grass and look at the sky, as clouds drifted and changed shapes. Sometimes a commercial airplane with two or four engines would cross the sky from east to west, and we followed it with our eyes and wondered where it was going and where it started from. We took turns naming cities that we would like to fly to. We never saw any jet planes. In the early 1950's there weren't any commercial jet planes flying in the United States.

     I mention this as I recall my aunt Katheryn Melville Reardon and her husband Harmon and their kindness to us. She was my mother's youngest sister, and she was my favorite among relatives. After my family moved to Continental Village, staying in touch with her sister’s family, Katheryn took the train from New York City to Peekskill, and hired a cab to take her to our house in Continental Village.

     When I was 11 and John was 16 years old, she and Harmon flew us to Washington, D.C., for a two-week summer vacation. Harmon and Katheryn Reardon were living at Arlington, Va.

     While Lt. Col. Harmon Reardon was working at the Pentagon, my aunt Katheryn took my brother and me to all the historic monuments and buildings in Washington, D. C., to George Washington’s home at Mount Vernon and to the civil war battlefield at Manassas. My aunt knew the historical significance of these places, and she explained her knowledge of these places as though she was our tour guide. Her voice was unforgettable. She spoke like Eve Arden of "Our Miss Brooks," a TV sitcom popular from 1952 to 1956.

     At Arlington, Harmon gave John and me an allowance of five dollars each week, but we had to work for it. My job was to shine his shoes. He was a dedicated army officer, a "spit and polish" officer. He was an intelligent man with a peculiar sense of humor.

     I remember the first time I had to polish his army shoes on the basis of very detailed instructions. I guess I didn't get it right, so he told me to "use more spit" and "make those shoes look like mirrors." I went back to work on his shoes, and when I was done the second time I presented them to him for inspection. I was proud of my work and expected praise.

     He looked at the shoes and then turned them over, exposing the soles which had not received any attention. "You forgot to polish the soles," he said. "Finish the job and you will get your allowance."

     My aunt heard that order and questioned him when he returned from the kitchen to the living room. I thought I heard him laughing. When I showed him the shoes the third time, after shining the soles, he gave me five dollars and said “Good job!”

     I forget what John's allowance job was. Perhaps it was to put out garbage, sweep and mop the floors or wash dishes. Whatever it was, he was pressed to "toe the line" too.

     When John got his five dollars, Harmon offered him a challenge. "Do you know how to play five card draw poker?" My brother answered, "Yes." Harmon said, "Want to play for one dollar a hand?" John answered, "Sure."

     Five hands later Uncle Harmon had all of John's money on his side of the card table. John looked like a boy lost at the opera.

     "Now, I have a suggestion," said Harmon. "We can play another hand for double or nothing. Nothing means you will not get next week's allowance if you lose this hand. Double means you get all your money back now, if you win this hand."

     Harmon knew that our dad, John Tittmann, Sr., had gambled and lost on horses at Long Island's race tracks. I guess he wanted to teach my brother John an early lesson about the pitfalls of such a pursuit. John had not learned anything yet because he eagerly accepted the next double or nothing hand. He lost again.

     Harmon took the money off the table and put it in his pocket. He did not look at my brother John. John got up from his chair immediately and went to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. I stayed in the living room and heard my aunt questioning her husband about the rationale for his behavior with children. Harmon remained silent as she "dressed him down."

     When she was done speaking in her own distinctive style of proper English, Harmon spoke a few short words: "I was trying to teach him a lesson. I believe I succeeded."

     To this day in time my brother John has never gambled with money. He does not play Lotto, engage in card games for money, bet on horses or even play Bingo.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO—FIRE CHIEF ARTHUR E. PALMER

   

Left to right: Art Palmer, Sr., Don Black, John Tittmann, Sr. These three men were a motorcycle racing team. They competed in professional hillclimbing events during the 1930's.

  Arthur Edwin Palmer, the first elected fire chief in Continental Village, was a natural command person who possessed excellent organizing skills. He stood over six feet tall, and weighed about two hundred pounds. He was a U.S. Navy career enlisted man. He was one of the Navy's first Master Chiefs. He was trained as a boilerman for steam engines, and during WW2 he worked in a ship's engine room. The USS Delta (AR-9) was his ship during the war years. On board this ship he received training in damage and fire control—not to be confused with gunnery fire control.

     He was the firstborn child in his family. His father, Edwin Palmer, nicknamed him "Tiny" because he could fit the baby in the deep pockets of his knickers. Art Palmer quit school when he was sixteen years old to help his family pay bills while his father was unemployed. He was a newspaper boy and a "soda jerk" at a pharmacy near his home in New York City. When his father was re-employed as motorman in the NYC subway system, Art Palmer did not return to school but continued to support his family. He got a job with Consolidated Edison during the depression of the 1930's. He joined the Navy Reserve before WW2 started.

     In early 1947 he was assigned to Fort Schuyler in the Bronx, a Navy Reserve base. He was put in charge of the power plant and base fire department. While on this assignment, he received additional training for fire prevention and fire fighting.

     He soon moved his family, which included six children, from Manhattan to Continental Village, where he had purchased one of the first three model homes built and marketed by Winston Development on Sprout Brook Road. He bought the house for $10,500, and he paid for it with a VA loan. Initially, he commuted to Fort Schuyler in the Bronx in a 1936 Ford Coupe, which had a rumble seat instead of a modern car trunk. Later he took the train, subway and bus to and from work.

     In the pre-development days of Continental Village fire companies from surrounding towns and communities were the late-to-arrive fire-protectors to this small hamlet. Response time was unreliable. In addition, home insurance rates were high without a local fire department. The dangers of a chimney fire or brush fire in open fields where houses were not yet built, or a fire in the pine trees surrounding the lake, were a constant threat to homeowners.

     By September 1950 Art Palmer and other responsible residents organized the Continental Village Volunteer Fire Department. These volunteers bought a 1920 Mack pumper and christened it "Old Betsy." It was first housed in the cellar of a barn located on the east side of the junction of Putnam Road and the north entrance of Tryon Circle. A house and lawn occupy this area today. (See Google maps, No. 76 Putnam Road.) The barn was located a short distance from the backyard of Art Palmer's house. Later "Old Betsy" was moved to a silo barn next to the old Cinnabar Dude Ranch Clubhouse.

     Art Palmer was elected fire chief and Sam "Al" Lazar was elected assistant fire chief. Soon the volunteers were in motion. The early volunteers trained near the Clubhouse and at various field locations. In time they added a Women's Auxiliary. They organized and planned the first bazaar and parade. They raised money to buy uniforms and they marched in parades. In the line of duty they responded to brush fires and house fires as far away as Annsville. Subsequently the fire department joined in mutual aid with other fire departments.