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Originally published in the Historic Nantucket, Vol 41, no. 2 (Summer 1993), p. 32-33

Where's the Fire?
By Flint Ranney

The story began in 1960 when the Town of Nantucket decided to sell its only ladder truck, an American LaFrance Quadruple, serial number 6079.

Hey! Are you two going to Nantucket on your honeymoon? Just got married in California? We heard it on the radio!"

This was shouted from a passing car as Corky, my bride of three days, and I stood beside a shiny red fire engine at the Cape Cod side of the Bourne Bridge. We were parked at the edge of the circle waiting for the brakes to cool off so we could proceed to Woods Hole. My wife was spattered with water and sand, her honeymoon outfit drenched, her hair windblown from the lack of a windshield, and she had yet to meet my family. She was beginning to wonder what she had gotten into.

This story started back in 1960, when the Town of Nantucket decided to sell its only ladder truck, an American LaFrance Quadruple Combination City Service Ladder Truck, serial number 6079. For $12,500, the Elmira, New York, manufacturer had sold the vehicle to the town in 1927, and it had been operated by the Nantucket Fire Department ever since. But the mechanical brakes had become worn and ineffective, and the motor-vehicle inspector, Arthur Davis, had ordered the truck off the road. There has been at least one suggestion that he was encouraged to do so by the fire chief, Irving Bartlett, who preferred a new truck with modern equipment such as hydraulic brakes and an aerial ladder that did not require four strong men to remove it from the truck and then totter around trying to stand it up beside a (presumably) burning building. The truck was put up for auction by sealed bid.

Living a carefree bachelor life in California at the time, but keeping informed about Nantucket matters by the Inquirer and Mirror (each weekly edition arriving some two weeks late) and recalling the chugga-chugga sound of the old ladder truck as it churned up Cliff Road on occasion, I foolishly sent in a bid of $510. In June of 1961, selectman secretary James K. Glidden wrote that I had submitted the high bid and could pick up the truck anytime.

It was being stored in a barn out at the cranberry bog— to the amazement of Arthur Davis, who could never figure out how it got there, being inoperable and all. Donny Allen and I went out to the bog and towed the truck back to his father's repair garage on Sparks Avenue (subsequently Denny's and now Egan Brothers). There the truck sat—lonely, rusting, and neglected—until Don Senior could find the time to install a vacuum-booster system on the brakes to make them pass inspection.

At the appointed hour, lacking a truck driver's license, I stood on the running board, Don Senior took the driver's seat, and Inspector Davis climbed into the passenger seat with some sort of inertia meter device that he placed on the floorboards to measure how long it took the truck to stop. Don Senior wound her up to about 25 m.p.h. along Sparks Avenue, and when nudged by the inspector, jammed down on the brake pedal. The truck coasted to a stop in a hundred feet or so, but the meter didn't budge! Arthur said, "That's no good." "Wait," said Don, "I'll just tighten them up a bit." He climbed under the truck with some pliers and a wrench, turned some turnbuckles, and banged around here and there. On the next attempt, we stopped so quickly that we almost left skid marks. Arthur looked at the meter, which apparently gave a satisfactory reading. He grunted, nodded his head, and handed over an inspection sticker on the spot. The truck has been on the road legally ever since.

For two summers that old truck was a pleasure vehicle during my short summer vacations on island, but it didn't look so good. It was rusting badly and the wooden ladders were decaying. Still, children's rides around Main Street to raise funds for the Boys and Girls Club were popular.

At the end of the summer of 1963 I persuaded my lifelong friend, C. Rollin Manville, to accompany me to New Bedford, where I had arranged with a service garage, Levesque and Rodrigues, to work on the truck over the winter while I returned to California. Each month I received a report of what work had been done—sandblasting, priming, fresh red paint, new upholstery—along with a bill. The regional American LaFrance service engineer took an interest in the project, finding and installing a number of authentic parts, including original headlights from a firechief in Horse Heads, New York ($50), proper bumper and headlight brackets, and a brass water tank. In 1964, for my annual two-week vacation, I picked up
the truck in New Bedford and drove over the road to Woods Hole, bringing it back to the island as a sort of test. But the restoration work had not been completed, so it was back to New Bedford for another winter of monthly reports and bills.

In late 1964, at a typical Hollywood Hills party, I met Charron (Corky) McPherson. A Canadian, she had been trained in London, Ontario, as a nurse and was then working at the UCLA Medical Center as an operating-room scrub nurse. We took an interest in each other that blossomed over the next few months and led to marriage in July 1965 in Covina, California. The timing was perfect for our annual vacations to coincide with our honeymoon. She had never been to Nantucket and looked forward to going there without worrying too much about transportation details. I just told her I had this old fire truck that I had for some reason named "Grover" and that we would be driving it to the island.

After the ceremony we flew to Boston and took a taxi to New Bedford, arriving in time to spend one night at the New Bedford Hotel, which I believe is now a nursing home. The next morning we arrived at Levesque's garage and were amazed to see how beautiful a job they had done on Grover. Mr. Levesque himself (I never met Rodrigues) was so excited by the news that this truck he had restored was to be used as a honeymoon vehicle for a couple going to Nantucket that he had called in a television reporter. This one had two cameras. Twice I helped Corky up onto the seat, loaded our luggage into the rack, and drove away from the curb and around the block, stopping to do it again: once for Channel 4 and once for Channel 5! With trepidation, Corky made herself comfortable as we finally set off down the road toward Woods Hole. Unbeknownst to us, the story went from the cameraman to the AP wire and onto radio. On our way to Woods Hole along Route 6 cars kept passing us with the drivers honking and the passengers waving and laughing and shouting to us,"Where's the fire?"

During the second winter of restoration the brakes had been relined and further adjustments made so that they were quite good. Too good. As we drove across the Bourne bridge, the brakebands heated up and tightened, causing the truck to go more and more slowly. We just barely made it to the rotary on the Cape Cod side and managed to get off to the edge of the road, where we stopped. Handing Corky a hose, I asked her to hold the nozzle over the rear wheels while I turned on the pump and sent water through to cool off the brakes. Of course the pressure was stronger than she expected and the hose bucked and water went everywhere, churning up sand that spattered her honeymoon-greet-the-family outfit. Adding this to her hair blown asunder by the windy ride in an open truck, she was seriously wondering why she had ever attended the Hollywood party. After a few moments of consolation, with brakes and bride cooled down, we proceeded leisurely on down the road to Woods Hole, backed the truck onto the Naushon, and enjoyed a pleasant cruise to Nantucket. Some good friends who were on the boat cheerfully tied beer cans to the back of the truck while we weren't paying attention, so as we drove off at Nantucket there was a great clatter behind us.

Thus ended my wife's first arrival on Nantucket and Grover's third. It was during the next year's vacation that Corky learned how to drive Grover, passed the test, and was awarded a commercial truck driver's license by Inspector Davis. In subsequent years she has developed a tolerance for my interest in this historic fire engine and even participated to a limited extent in the annual Fourth of July Main Street water fight with the Nantucket Fire Department.

But I still owe her a proper honeymoon for putting up with my motto, "Love me, love my fire engine."

 


H. Flint Ranney was president of the Nantucket Historical Association for eight years and currently serves on the Board of Trustees. He first came to Nantucket when he was three months old and summered in his grandparents' home on the cliff, where he and Corky now make their summer residence.