“I didn’t know whether to duck and cover or stop for lunch,” commented a resident about the unfamiliar alarm sounding in town center three weeks ago. After the alarm went off a few more times in as many days, I started asking around to see if someone could explain it.
No one knew for sure, but most concurred it was connected with the Fire Department. “Something to do with electrical boxes to tell where the fire is,” someone thought. I was curious. I hadn’t heard any alarm go off for the past few years, and this alarm sounded nothing like the old system where a hornlike alarm gave off one, two, or three blasts to notify firefighters of the location of the fire. My kids grew up knowing that if they heard 2-2-4, they should start to worry.
I sent Chief Sicard an email asking for a brief explanation. Two days later I sent another. Frustrated that I hadn’t heard back, I went up to the fire station where I caught Sicard having lunch. He said he would send me an email describing what was happening, adding that some more testing of the system would be happening that week or next. I was reluctant to ask him questions with his lunch in his hand, but I tried to impress upon him that people really wanted to know what the alarm was all about, and he assured me he would get me the information very soon.
I had just joined Nextdoor Harvard, and when I saw a message asking if anyone knew what was going on with the “weird siren,” I smugly replied to the entire online membership that the Harvard Press would be providing that information in its next issue.
Eating my words
I had to eat my words, but I hoped I could make good on my promise the next week. I sent Chief Sicard another email, stressing that it was really important to educate residents before another blast went off. Silence. No word on the town website. No reverse 911 email. I really wanted the information (and I had my Nextdoor reputation at stake). I didn’t want to look like a stalker and appear at the station again, but there seemed no other way. I must admit I had mixed feelings when no one answered the station doorbell.
I stopped at Town Hall to see if by some chance Sicard was there or if by some even greater chance I could catch Tim Bragan. No chance. Julie Doucet and Marie Sobalvarro were sympathetic, the former offering to try to find the chief, and the latter trying to explain something about boxes on municipal buildings. But despite her attempt, she soon ended by saying, “You really need to ask the fire chief.”
Yes, I know. I tried. Now the chief’s on vacation and the Press is about to go on hiatus. Hopefully, the mystery alarm won’t sound again until we know what it means and how it works.
