These photos show Freedom Street during the 1955 flood. In the picture above, the house at the right edge is at the corner of Freedom and Progress. The one next to it is 94-96 Freedom, which was the home of the Cyr families, the subjects of the story on this page. In front of their house a fire hydrant and a utility pole painted as they are at fire alarm box locations can be seen. The fire alarm box, which figures in the story, can also be seen in the photo below.
Hopedale History
July 15, 2017
No. 328
Flood, Fire and False Alarms
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Applications for the construction of additions to two nursing homes were approved by the Zoning Board of Appeals last night. James and Jesse Tracey of 34 Adin Street have also received approval from the state department of health of the addition of 20 rooms to their Oakledge Manor Home. The application of William and Pauline Earl for an addition to the Graceland Convalescent Home was approved based on acceptance of the plan by the state department of health. The home is the former residence of Warren W. Dutcher, 14 Adin Street. Milford Daily News, January 1967.
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Flood, Fire and False Alarms
By Mike Cyr
That Flood of 1955 (that Dan has posted quite a few pictures of)? We were there. As the pond overflowed the banks, escape plans were made. We actually went across Freedom Street to the Bancroft Park end of the Shop and went to the second floor. From there we made our way to the main entrance on Hopedale Street where Uncle Pat from Milford was waiting to take us to his house on South Main Street. Once the flood waters receded and we came back, the basement was filled to the windows with pond water. That cleanup took a long time and we had a cellar full of mosquitoes.
On our section of Freedom Street, we had a fire alarm box. It was a red box with a white door hanging on the pole in front of number 96 Freedom Street. They all had different numbers to identify the location. This one was number 413.
To an almost five-year-old kid it had the enchanting, luring call like the Sirens of Greek mythology. One day I was overcome and just like the Greek sailors, I headed for the “rocks.” Armed with my little red tricycle to aid in reaching the box, I pulled open the little white door, grabbed hold of the lever and pulled it down. As a set of gears started to grind, suddenly I realized I had set in motion trouble that could not be reeled back. As the gears turned and the tumblers clicked into place I ran and looked for a place to hide. As the blast of the fire horns announced the trouble I was about to be in, I ran through the house, up the stairs and hid under my bed. There was one problem with the cover-up. I left the little red tricycle at the pole. Suddenly, my ankles were grabbed and in an instant my frightened, rigid body was pulled out from under the bed like a board from the wood pile. Right there in my bedroom were my dad and Fire Chief Charlie Watson. Dad and Charlie were looking really hot. Charlie was glaring at me with both his hand on his hips, his beer belly poking out, and a short stub of a cigar hanging from the side of his mouth. I got the lecture from Charlie about how I could go to jail and after he left came the spanking from dad.
In a real case of déjà vu, five years later, my brother Alan (five years my junior), equipped with my handed down tricycle placed said tricycle against the same pole and pulled the lever of old fire alarm # 413. Predictably, with exactly the same result as my adventure five years earlier.
We lived in a duplex that was built around 1880-1885. The homes should have been basically mirror images of one another. I often noticed that Grampy and Grammy’s side was much nicer than our side. They had an archway and two living areas. The living room in the front was more formal than the one in the back. There was also a sizable shadow box built in the wall for Grams Hummel collection. The kitchen was decked out with extensive cabinetry that you could tell was not store bought but hand built. This was in stark contrast to our side of the home which could best be described as almost original equipment with perhaps a few post WWI upgrades. When I asked my parents about the design differences, they smiled and explained to me that Grampy was the Head of the Painting Department and a few weeks before he and my Grandmother were scheduled to close on the house, my Grandmother carefully placed newspapers in the front living room area and set fire to them. She then called for help from the shop personnel. The wood shop was right across the street and workers were conveniently standing right near the door with buckets of sand and fire extinguisher canisters which were being stored for an anticipated “company” fire drill. Well, the fire was dispatched quickly with little structural damage but there was lots of smoke damage that needed to be repaired by the current owners. As head of the Painting Department and aligned with maintenance operations Gramps took charge of the repair of 96 Freedom Street which resulted in many of the aforementioned differences in the two units along with replastered ceilings throughout the house and new wall paper in the hallways.
There was a second fire some years later. This one was on the 94 Freedom St side. It took place on a cold winter Saturday morning. At that time dad was a professional painter. In those days all the paint products were oil- based which meant the cleanup of tools and brushes require flammable chemicals. The storage spot for unused paint, shellac, varnish as well as thinner and cleaners was in the basement. On this cold weekend we were all tucked into our beds. The exceptions were my younger brothers Alan and Tom. They were up bright and early and down in the basement with all kinds of interesting brushes and buckets not to mentions a really old gas fired hot water heater.
Imaginations grew wings with the possibilities. All was great until the bright idea was hatched to take a rag that was soaked with linseed oil, open the door to the hot water heater and stick it into the now open flame. Thrusting the linseed soaked rag into that flame had to have produced results for one 7 year old and his 5 year old sidekick that could only be described as a panic stricken moment. It was in that moment when the decision was made to plunge the fiery brush back into the liquid from which it came; the 5 gallon pail of turpentine. The results were not quite as expected. With flames running up the support beams and floor joists, the decision was made to seek adult support. I was awakened by screams of mom, “Get up! Get out! The house is on fire!” As the Hopedale Fire Department under the direction of Chief Charlie Watson was pumping water into the basement we were huddling in the car in P.J.s and bathrobes, I remember a good piece of the neighborhood in our backyard watching the goings on. I was dismayed to see one of the firefighters to come out with the cage that housed the family parakeet, Pete. Pete did not look good. He was unconscious on the floor of the cage.
For Al and Tom, the saving grace from the wrath of dad was the fact the Charlie Watson was really angry. I can still picture Charlie with his well-rounded reddish Irish face, scrounged up like a bulldog chewing on that signature stubby cigar he always had. He was about three inches from dad’s face and screaming that we were lucky that the whole block hadn’t blown up with all the paint and chemicals down there. Charlie gave dad orders to have all this hazardous material ready for an inspection by the following week. For a kid like me in my early teens, it was amazing to see my father being chastised by the Fire Chief and as I looked at the rest of the neighborhood watching, I noticed Pete swinging on his swing and all was well.