As a young man growing up in Washington, it always seemed during the holiday season there was more activity around the fire station than usual. It was a hub for men of all walks of life and professions. The rear entrance was where the volunteer firemen could enter, and you could usually catch Mr. Ox, Jimmy Hill or Coach Wagner watching a ball game on television.

Another sense of security was the fire whistle. Every day at noon, the fire whistle would blare out, letting everyone know that it was time for lunch. It would also blare out at times of a fire to let the volunteers know where the fire was. Hearing the fire whistle was a sense of security to all of us who grew up during that time. We could always count on hearing it!

My dad took great pride in being a volunteer fireman and rarely missed a fire. He was a volunteer for more than 30 years and was proud of the Washington Fire Department and the skills he learned to put out fires. Men were proud to be called a volunteer fireman, and they trained beside the paid firemen and were prideful of their efforts. It is also where he earned his nickname “Hurkey.” I will tell you that story, as the nickname seemed to stay with him until he passed away at age 90.

You see, everything revolved around the fire station. Oyster roasts, dove hunting trips and the best card games in town all took place at the station. Cambo Rodman, Dan Winfield and I would follow Dr. Rodman and others to Grassy Ridge for big dove hunting trips on Saturday afternoons during our Christmas break from school. The older men never seemed to be upset that we followed them and, if anything, they were helpful to us as we stationed ourselves along the ditch banks, waiting for the doves to fly. We were not nearly as good of a shot as the older men, but we kept the birds flying for them so they could get their limit.

My Dad was an avid hunter, along with his buddy J.C. Singleton. They rarely missed a morning duck hunt and would go to Lake Mattamuskeet to hunt geese. During the holiday season, after hunting trip, the two dropped by the fire station to see their friends. (Apparently they had few adult beverages). Well, my dad declared to all those in the fire station that they could come by our house and get some “hurkey.” He meant to say turkey! He was called “Hurkey” from that moment on, and the name sure stuck.

Riding by the old fire station now, it seems lonely. Missing is the laughter, the friendship and the enjoyment these men seem to share. Even though they represented different professions, they were all friends, while being the first to respond to any fire. This was Washington at its best, and these men were role models and, at times, I do not know (the same) exists today. Many are looking down and hoping the example they set is being followed by their sons. I know “Hurkey” is!

The best of times with the best of friends and in the best of places — Washington, NC!

— Hurkey Jr.

Harold Robinson Jr. is a native of Washington.