When the power came to Upper Horton village

Lorraine Crittenden. The Power Comes to Horton.
Lorraine Crittenden is the granddaughter of Mrs. Montroy, who was the Post Mistress at Upper Horton and who visited on a regular basis during the 1950’s and 60’s.

It was Sunday morning, and the smell of freshly baked bread hung in the air. Wearily Joe stepped from the old stone bakehouse, removing his baker's hat as he crossed the yard to the house. It was only early October, but already the weather was hot. A strong blustery wind whipped up grit and dead leaves around his legs as he walked. His wife, Elvy, looked up as he entered the kitchen.

"Joe, don‘t forget you promised to take Wayne for a driving lesson to-day," she said as she walked into the deep, cool recess of the pantry.

“l hadn’t forgotten. We‘ll go for a run over to the common to check on the cattle, after lunch "

“'That‘s good, he‘s very keen," she replied as her eyes swept around the shelves of preserves, home-made pickles and sauces. As she reached for the jam, she noticed the now disused kero and tilley lights relegated to the back shelf. The power had been connected to the century old village, barely three months before. Electric refrigerators replaced the old but effective coke safes and television brought the world to their living rooms.

Later that afternoon, with Wayne behind the wheel, father and son made their way to the Common. A hotly contested cricket game was in progress on the Sports Ground, both teams battling the gritty wind as much as each other. As they passed by, Joe reflected that life was pleasant and that he was well content. Joe relaxed in his seat. as they circled around, now and then offering advice to the youthful driver. They had not been there long, when on completing a turn, Joe noticed a trail of black smoke was rising in a thick black column so dense that even the blustery wind was not able to do more than tatter the edges.

"Someone‘s burning old tyres." he remarked casually to his son.

The sound of a car horn blasting urgently reached their ears.

"Thar’s Uncle Bevan.“ Wayne said in amazement. "Boy, he sure is in a hurry.”

They watched as Joe’s brother-in-law's car hurried across the paddock, coming to shuddering stop beside them.

"Joe, Joe. “ Bevan yelled, eyes wide in his pale face. "The Post Office is on fire. Winds blowing away from your place, but you‘d better come, quick.” Bevan then wheeled his car around and headed back to the village with Joe close behind.

Nothing could have prepared Joe for the sight that met his eyes as they pulled up in the main street. Wind whipped flames had completely engulfed the old timber Post Office. Even as he watched the weakened timber frame began to collapse, sending a curtain of sparks spiralling, skywards. Joe’s mouth went dry as he watched the iron roof come crashing down forcing great flames out sideways to lick the walls of his home.

“The wind has changed direction," someone yelled.

"Col managed to get at call out to the fire-brigade before the wires burnt,” another called.

Knowing that the fire-brigade was in another town, 24 miles away, Joe felt panic rising as he saw that the flames were taking hold of the walls of his home. He threw himself from the cab of the ute.

"Quick. son, park up the end of the street. I‘ll see what l can save".

The call for help had reached the fire-brigade headquarters, and although the fire-brigade had been formed decades ago, this was the first call to a house fire.

"Morrie, Morrie, call the guys, Horton Post Office is on fire .... " his voice trailed off. “My God, where‘s the engine," he screamed.

"l think Dave took it to water the golf greens this morning,“ Morrie stuttered, his usually florid face pale. Sure enough, that's where they found it, and Dave, who was busily repairing two flat tyres.

“Hi guys, what’s up," he queried as they screeched to a halt.

“Get a move on mate, Horton Post Office is on fire."

"She's empty too, " Dave groaned

"My god."

Joe raced around to the back of the house, yelling for his wife, “Elvy, Elvy, get out, the house is on fire.“

Elvy dashed past him from out of their semi-detached small business shop, her arms laden with the till and a box of business papers.

"The bird, Joe get the bird from the back veranda."

Joe rushed onto the veranda, grabbed the bird cage, and with its occupant screeching and fluttering in alarm at this unaccustomed rough handling, raced outside in time to meet his son. Thrusting the cage into Wayne’s arms he wheeled around to return to the house.

”My car collection dad, would you see if you can get it for me“. the boy called urgently.

"OK. mate, I want to get my good suits too.” he called. As he entered the house he could hear exploding glass and the deafening roar of the flames. One glance showed that the boy’s room was already an inferno. Coughing and with eyes steaming from the smoke he tried to enter his room, but the heat was so intense all he was able to do was to snatch up at bundle of clothes lying on a chair near the door. He shook his head sadly at his son‘s unspoken question on his return to the yard. The cricket teams had arrived to see if they could help but the house was now engulfed in flame. Two of the cricketers hustled Elvy out of the shop, where they had found her calmly packing butter into a cardboard box.

Clustered together at a safe distance all they could do was to watch the destruction of their home. “Joe, all our photos of the kids, my jewellery, all gone.” Elvy said tearfully.

“Mum, where’s Blue." Wayne suddenly shrieked. His concern for his dog momentarily over-riding his grief caused by the loss of his treasured collection.

“I’m sure he’s safe son, he would have run. as soon as he felt the heat." And he had too. Wayne found him up the end of the street near the ute.

Two hours later the fire engine drew up before the remains of the two buildings. Here and there, from amongst the twisted roofing iron, the odd wisp of grey smoke eddied in a faint breeze. When it was discovered that the fire had begun when a refrigerator at the Post Office dwelling, had shorted out, Joe gave a wan smile and said "So much for progress."

(Thank you to Shirley Simmons who provided a copy of this story and photo)