More memories of the Winsted Fire Department

More memories about the Winsted Fire Department have come to mind since the last batch was published a while back. One I was involved in, the other was slightly before my time. I’ll start with the last one first.

There used to be another building between the Central Fire House and the building where Dr. Saunders has his office. Today it is a parking lot. One of the members of the department happened to have an apartment on the second floor of this building, and he and a few of his brother firemen had card games up there on occasion.

The house man at the Central Station at that time was a fellow we called “Dutch,� primarily because he had a short fuse and was a guy you wouldn’t want to cross, especially as he was completely lacking a sense of humor.

One hot summer evening there was a card game going on in the apartment while at the same time Dutch was in his upstairs apartment, sitting on a straight-backed chair in the middle of the room directly under a hanging, bare electric bulb. Apparently it was the only source of light for that room. As it was a particularly hot, humid evening, most windows were wide open, with the forlorn hope that a meandering puff of cool air might happen to wander past. Dutch’s window was opened from both the top and bottom.

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One of the card players happened to notice that they had a straight look out their window and into the room occupied by the houseman. Going into a closet, he emerged with a .22 caliber rifle, and told somebody to turn out the lights in their apartment, because they were going to play a joke on old Dutch. The alignment of the two open windows was perfect. Drawing a careful bead on the hanging bulb, he squeezed off one round, immediately plunging the upstairs room into complete darkness.

Wasting no time, the whole bunch of them went down the back stairs and proceeded through some backyards on Elm Street until they eventually emerged on Elm. Their reasoning was that they weren’t sure whether or not Dutch had been able to hear the shot. If he had, they would be in trouble, so they were taking no chances.

As they walked down Elm Street toward the fire station, they could see Dutch standing out front on the sidewalk. This might or might not be good as far as they were concerned. As they got up to him, someone greeted him and asked why he was standing out on the street on such a hot night. It was apparent that Dutch was agitated (but wasn’t he usually?).

“I was reading the paper upstairs when all of a sudden the damned light bulb blew up! Showered the whole room with glass! What really makes me mad is that I replaced that bulb not more than a week ago.â€�  

It’s amazing how fast the human brain can adapt to unknown situations. The words were no sooner out of his mouth when one of the firemen asked where he might have purchased that bulb last week. “Got it from Henry Holmes.� Henry was an electrician, and had a store around the corner on Main Street. He was a good electrician and was well liked in the community.

“Well, you know, Dutch, I have heard that this has been happening lately with Henry’s light bulbs — as a matter of fact there have been quite a few recently. I think it’s time someone put a stop to it. If I were you, I’d take what’s left of your bulb back and demand a replacement.�

“I’m going to, just as soon as his shop is open.�

First thing Monday morning Dutch was in Holmes’ Electric, brass screw-end in hand, telling Henry about how his cheap, no-good bulb had exploded. Henry, not one to be easily pushed over, kept telling Dutch that it was physically impossible for a bulb to explode like that. Words couldn’t begin to convince Dutch. He just got madder and madder.

Finally, mostly to get rid of the guy, Henry gave Dutch his replacement light bulb. A long time later, someone asked one of the card players if they had ever let Dutch in on the joke.

“What do you think? Do I look crazy? The guy would kill me!�

Years later Dutch went to his maker not knowing why Henry’s cheap light bulb had showered him with those shards of hot glass that summer night. I don’t think they ever told Henry, either.

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The annual Fireman’s Carnival, held in August, is the most significant fundraiser for the Winsted Fire Department. I don’t know whether or not things are the same nowadays, but 30 years ago we used to contract with a carnival company that would supply the department with several booths on wheels, as well as the Ferris wheel and other rides.

Every night after closing, the money was collected from the various concessions and brought to the Holibird Avenue station in the back seat of a Winsted Police cruiser. One August night in the early 1970s, the department wound down the festivities for that year. It was Sunday night, and we had just had a very successful carnival; several bags of money were deposited in the back seat.

Bags of money are heavy, in case you never had to carry them. I have always wondered about the getaways shown in some movies, where someone runs out of the bank and jumps into the getaway vehicle carrying several bags of money. They wouldn’t have done that if a Winsted fireman had filled them!

The carnival had ended at midnight, and by about 12:45 a.m. we were ready to go over to the Holibird Avenue station and count the take. There were still quite a few people wandering around even at that hour, and as we sat in the cruiser, we began wondering out loud what the chances were that someone would make an attempt to rob us of the take. The policeman said that the best scenario would be for someone to stage an accident at the intersection of Main and Rowley streets, and during the ensuing confusion, while the police were occupied with the accident, grab the money and beat a hasty retreat.

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A few minutes later we were ready to roll, and three firemen and the police driver pulled slowly out onto Rowley Street and headed north. Just as we got to the intersection right next to where Dairy Queen is currently located, a pickup truck came barreling eastbound through the intersection, against a red light, and plowed smack into the side of a passenger car.

Our driver said something like “hang on!� and we accelerated around the two wrecked vehicles and went directly to Holibird Avenue station, where we promptly locked the doors and peered out the windows. We heard people running past the station; and down the hill at the bridge across Still River the aerial ladder was fully extended with a bright spotlight swinging back and forth. The officer, handgun drawn, told us to get back from the windows and keep the doors locked.

Eventually, the commotion died down and we counted the money, which amounted to several thousand dollars. More police officers came by and told us what had happened. The accident had been real, and by coincidence, someone started robbing the cigarette machine in a filling station where the new pharmacy is today. The silent alarm had gone off, and as most of the duty section of the police department was there, they were immediately in hot pursuit.

The thief ran down the banks of Still River and actually ran right past the firehouse and continued down to where the vacant Gilbert Clock buildings are, where he was arrested. The crook escaped with something like $6 in change and a few packs of cigarettes, and had run no more than 10 feet past several thousand dollars piled on card tables.

I forget who the other three men in the cruiser were, but I’ll guarantee that they never forgot that night!

 

Bob Grigg is the town historian in Colebrook.

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