Sanctuary for a Junior High Refugee: Step 22

Most of my five and a half months at John Muir Junior High are a blur. My main concern was staying alive long enough to grace the corridors of the new junior high they were building south of Hampton Avenue. The only thing good about going all the way to Muir was its proximity to the firehouse where my father worked. Since he only worked a 24-hour shift every other day there was no sense in going there on days he had off. With Wade moving away and my cousin Jim, who was six months younger, still back at Grantosa, I had no one to walk with to and from school. When I would arrive at the firehouse Dad was usually busy in the kitchen. He cooked for the 15 or 20 guys on his shift. Bishke was usually in there, too, helping chop or sauté something. Of course, Bishke was Mr. Bishke when we are at the firehouse. So it was for Johnny Beck, Gus Valdevinus, Mike Stevens, Danny Nerad and Fraumstein. They all converted to Mr. Beck, Mr. Valdevinus, Mr. Stevens, Mr. Nerad and Mr. Fraumstein. Even Windy, whom I’d called Windy since we first moved to the house on Lancaster Avenue was Mr. Sutchek once I stepped inside the firehouse. By this time I’d outgrown the thrill of sitting up in the cab of the fire engine, or jumping up on the back of the fire truck. For those of you unfamiliar with the difference the engine has the hoses and the motor pump which adjusts the water pressure, while the truck is sometimes referred to as the hook and ladder for obvious reasons. Despite having lost this fascination, there was still the glamour and mystique of men at work. And, though I never viewed it as dangerous or putting oneself in harm’s way, there was the excitement knowing these men shared adventures together out on the streets of Milwaukee. Most of them knew my name even before the first time I showed up on my own having walked the three blocks from Muir. During the freezing weather the idea of visiting with some of my father’s comrades while waiting for my mother to get off of work and pick me up was quite appealing. Decades away from the advent of the cell phone this was my best method of communication and line of defense from having to make the cold lonely walk home. A few times Mom was a little late and I’d have to start on my homework. On a few other occasions the alarm would go off and the guys would hurry to get aboard before the sirens screeched and the wheels rolled. Most of the time though it was just a quiet hour and a half sitting on a bench at a highly polished table sipping hot chocolate watching men in khaki shirts and pants being men. Your comments and stories are welcome.