Chasing Down Captain Hildahl at the Coffee Shop

When I got in line for coffee yesterday morning, I still hadn't decided whether it would be better to drive or take the train downtown for a pair of meetings -- factors included walking distances, meeting durations, parking prices, the weight of my backpack, and the likelihood of rain -- but I was soon distracted from this mental calculus by a group of firemen who were standing at the counter talking knowledgeably to the barista about the roast, and the grind, and the essential coffea arabica oils. I wondered idly, Do firefighters in other towns talk this way? And then it occurred to me: I've got some questions for these guys.

I asked one of them if they were from Station 28 (in Hillman City); they were. I ran back out to my car and grabbed a thick file off the front seat: a complete xerox of the Seattle Fire Department's personnel file on Sidney Hildahl, who served as Captain at Station 28 from 1931 to 1958.

The firemen (now stirring sugar into their lattes) were happy to explain several details of SFD employment procedure that had mystified me heretofore: apparently you still have to fill out a form explaining why you are, say, six minutes late to work -- Sidney Hildahl had racked up a dozen or so of these -- and you get demerits every time, which makes it harder to amass the merits you "spend" whenever you request an extra day off, or some other scheduling favor. Back then you got one day off between 24-hour shifts (nowadays you get two) and in the '20s you were on for a week or more at a stretch -- your family had to come visit you at the station if they wanted to see you.

I showed them the letter reprimanding Captain Hildahl for the slovenly appearance of his crew when they were out on inspection in Columbia City on July 22nd, 1948. It seems one of Hildahl's men "had his sleeves rolled up, cap on back of head and his hands in his pockets." Another was spotted getting a haircut at the barbershop while on duty. "This man," the report goes on, "had no belt on his trousers." Hildahl received a ten-day suspension for allowing these sartorial infractions. One of the gentlemen from Station 28 glanced over at his colleague's (regulation?) suspenders, then down at the signature on the letter. "Oh, look, it's Chief Fitzgerald! He's still a legend in the Fire Department. He was so strict, he wouldn't give you a new light bulb unless you turned in the burned-out one. He wouldn't give you a roll of toilet paper unless you gave him the empty tube from the last one. They Mayor kept him on forever, because he saved the city so much money!"

(For the record: later I spoke with a retired Seattle firefighter who now runs a fire engine museum called the Last Resort Fire Department, and he told me Fitzgerald was a great man and an inspiring leader. "My dad was a fireman, so I grew up in the Department. Chief Fitzgerald pinned a badge on me when I was just a kid -- he knew I wanted to be a fireman too." He put Fitzgerald's conservative financial policies in a slightly more positive light: "He was known for returning money to the City budget that had been allocated to the Fire Department, but not spent. It's one of the reasons we have so many antique vehicles in our collection now, because they were still running when he retired in 1963.")

Pretty soon the firemen were all gathered around, looking through the file, showing each other Captain Hildahl's disability claims (he once hurt his back lifting car off a man who was trapped under it), and trying to decipher the handwritten letter he submitted in '31 asking to be transferred to Station 28. (It reads: "On account of my wife ill health I would like to be transferred to a station nearer my home, so that I could put in more time at home, as she is very nervous and iratable.")

I was sort of surprised at how long it took one of them to look up from the papers they had strewn all over the table and ask me, "So, wait -- why do you have this file, again?"

I started to tell them that I'm doing this project with some kids at Orca about the seven houses that used to be where the Whitworth playfield is now, and how we're researching the people who lived in the houses, and writing stories about them, and it turns out Sidney Hildahl actually lived in two of the houses at different points... And right about then their walkie-talkies all started crackling and hissing, and one of them knocked his coffee over (missing the pile of papers by inches), and thirty seconds later their rig pulled away from the curb outside and they were gone.

Fortunately the Lieutenant had slipped me his card on his way out the door, so I'll be able to invite the folks from Station 28 to the culminating event for our project -- which will be June 17th, if anyone's interested. We are going to draw seven life-size floorplans on the playfield where the houses used to be; bring in some couches, rugs, tables and chairs; and invite the neighbors to come visit these vanished homes.

During a one-day break in the rain last week, we experimented a bit with some different tools and materials: here's how our first -- quite rudimentary -- effort turned out.

Since then we've gotten some architectural advice from Elizabeth (thank you!), and made a couple more trips to the hardware store.

We're putting together a little book of the stories we've written about the houses and their inhabitants -- imagined scenes based on the shards of evidence we've been able to dig up from old property records, city directories, newspapers, maps, photographs, and neighbors' memories.  We'll share these stories (and some cookies too) with anyone who wants to drop by and sit around Sidney Hildahl's kitchen table with us for a bit. We hope that includes you!

No Place Like Home will be on display Thursday, June 17th from 3 to 7 pm. (If you're available to help with the installation earlier that day, we could use some more hands!)