THE DAY THE SCHOOL CAUGHT FIRE

 It was a Friday morning about 11:00 and I was sitting in Spanish class, behind the brand new consoles that had been installed for language learning by the school system, listening to Mr. or should I say Senior Campbell “repeatan tambien por favor” the words of the conquistadores one more time. Suddenly the fire alarm rang out and the procedures that were put in place and rehearsed many times over began. In an orderly soldier-like fashion, we marched out of the new wing of the high school and down the steps to the first floor and onto the lawn.

Someone quipped: “wouldn’t it be funny if the school really was on fire?” We all chuckled, and I looked over toward the old wing and noticed smoke climbing up from what I thought was behind the chimney. Being how it was March the Chimney would be “Playing” that day, as I continued my conversation with one of the guys when all of a sudden someone shouts: “Look!” I turn around to look where she was pointing to and see the windows of the second floor in the old wing fly up, smoke billowing out and kids standing at the window! I realized at that point that my younger sister Fran was supposed to be in that classroom and started to race toward the building. Halfway there, the kids started to jump out of the window and land in the scrubs that broke their fall and cushioned them from any physical harm for the most part. As I got to the fence surrounding the building I realized that Fran had stayed home that day, and maybe saved her life and mine as I had planned to go up there and find her.

As the kids started to fall out the window, the fire department arrived and took charge, moving us all back away from the building and across the street toward the bank. I decided to go to the village, which was just a short, walk from the school and call my Mother and tell her what was happening. On the corner of Main Street and Station Road was a drug store, and at the very entrance of the store was a phone booth. I called and my Mom answered…

“What are you doing out of school?”
Me: “The school is on fire!”
Mom: “Don’t get so smart.”
Me; “Listen”
Me: “Is Fran home?”
Mom: “Yes, she’s right here.”

I stick the phone out the bi-fold doors and as I do another fire truck is roaring by screening as the sirens play their song of urgency.

There were many people involved in that ordeal that day, helicopters hovering overhead, their blades whirling around at blinding speeds, police sirens blaring, medical personnel scampering about, firefighters charging up ladders, all with a sacred mission, one that they were trained to do to save lives. Some people were injured, some were hospitalized, some escaped the fire, and some fought the fire, but no one died that day.

A student smoking a cigarette tossed it behind the curtain in the auditorium when a teacher was approaching that caused the fire.

As I watched from my vantage point across the street in front of the bank, there were kids being brought in on stretchers into the bank, medics caring for them, all the while and the school was still burning. Everyone had evacuated, one way or another when suddenly the roof of the building lifted upward as a tremendous explosion erupted from the old fashioned boiler room.

Until my dying day, I will never forget the dejected figure of our school principal, Mr. Feeney, standing on the lawn, his hands in his pocket looking down as the fire raged in front of him in defiance.

“We bid thee a fond farewell
Though many a year’s gone by.
Oh, Bellport, Bellport, Bellport High,
Parting is sorrow, parting is neigh.”