Close Calls
I loved fighting fires in those busy days & nights of my technicolor youth. I seemed to be tireless then, but not so much any more, deep in my dotage. Betsy is happy that I’m no longer awakened by the tones. I guess in a guarded retrospect, so am i;
I began as a firefighter in Port Crane, NY, in August of 1967, just a month before my senior high school year began. Port Crane received its name, just as Port Dickinson did, by being stops on the long defunct Chenango Canal which once connected Binghamton to Utica, NY, in those 19th century days before the advent of the railroad, the proverbial Iron Horse.
The use of the canal was a leisurely transportation method with its locks, flooding gates, its lengthy times of deliveries depending on the speed of the mules pulling the barges from the banks and the languid filling or emptying of the locks. Railroads moved at considerable greater speed with far greater payloads and soon their economies of scale ended the canal system.
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