When I think about the old City Hall Building which was located at 105 Williamson Street in Milan, Tennessee, during the late 1940’s a flood of memories fill my mind.  (Thanks to Peggy Haney who provided me with this street address.)
      A number of the city administrative offices were housed in that old building.  On the ground floor were the Mayor’s Office, Police Department, Health Department, Fire Department, City Utility Department, and City Library.  At that time Floyd Burrow was Mayor; Ben Johnson was Chief of Police; and Mildred Fields was the City Librarian.
      Located on the second floor were the Chamber of Commerce Office, Rankin Mathis’ law office, a large auditorium, and my father’s office which overlooked Williamson Street.  Harry Paulus was the Director of the Chamber of Commerce, and Marjorie Elam was the secretary in that office.
       When one walked out of the front door of the City Hall Building, to one’s immediate left on the same side of the street was Seavers’ Barber Shop; to the right was Kenneth Parker’s Frigidaire Appliance Store.  Across the street were Herb Davis’ Jewel Box jewelry store and record shop, Milan Cab Company, and the National Store which was managed by Mr. Clay Chandler.
       On Sunday, April 2, 1950, my parents and I attended Sunday School and the morning worship service at the Cumberland Presbyterian Church in Milan.  At that time Blake Warren was the minister.  Following the worship service we drove out to the Graball Community to have lunch and visit with my grandparents, Rolan and Bessie Wood.  When we left their home and started back toward town we could see the smoke that was coming from the City Hall Building which was destroyed by fire that afternoon.
      By the time we arrived at the site of the fire the streets and sidewalks were filled with spectators and firefighting equipment.  People were running, screaming, and feeling overwhelmed as they watched this horrible scene unfold.  It was even a bit ironic that the “burning inferno” housed the Fire Department’s equipment.
      New office equipment and furnishings had been delivered to Dad’s office by Carroll Typewriter Company on the preceding Friday afternoon.  All the new desks, typewriters, adding machines, filing cabinets, paper products, bookcases, etc. went up in flames some 48 hours after being delivered.  The fire destroyed many of Dad’s personal and professional possessions which could never be replaced.  I have often wondered how many of the city’s official records were destroyed by this fire.
      I still remember how Dad and I sat side-by-side on the curb across the street from that burning inferno.  He put his arm around me and pulled me close, and, together, we watched as the business he had worked so hard to build went up in smoke and flames.  At one point he put is head down in his hands and wept.  It was one of the few times I ever saw my father cry.  I remember how sad and helpless I felt.  Undergoing this experience was like finding one’s self in the midst of a nightmare!
      However, I was deeply impressed by Dad’s positive response to loss and adversity, for after that fire he immediately began the process of rebuilding his business and getting on with life.  He chose not to permit this devastating blow to defeat him.  Like the Phoenix of old, he rose up out of the ashes and soared above the ash heaps.  The next day after the fire he was waiting for me at the close of the school day when I came out of Mrs. Ozella Cantrell’s first grade classroom at North Main Elementary School.  After I climbed into our old Chevy, Dad drove back downtown to the burned-out building, and I helped him sift through the ashes and salvage the few things which could be saved.  I still recall the strong odor of the charred paper and wood and how some of the solid objects were still warm to the touch.
      Dad did not rebuild his business alone, for there was a flood of love, support, and encouragement from numerous persons who put their arms around him and helped him to meet the challenges, difficulties, and opportunities of the days which lay ahead.  The memory of these priceless expressions of love is firmly fixed in my mind.
      My memory of one individual in particular is unforgettable.  Mr. E.D. Carroll, one of the proprietors of Carroll Typewriter Company in Jackson, Tennessee, played a very important role in the aftermath of this devastating fire.  Dad had purchased all of this new office equipment and furnishings on credit--even down to the stapling machines, rubber bands, and paper clips.  On Friday, March 31st, before the fire which took place on Sunday, April 2nd, Dad called a local insurance company, and the agent was scheduled to come to his office on Monday, April 3rd, and write a policy which would cover damages caused by fire, storm, and theft.  This meant that Dad was facing serious problems on two fronts.  On the one hand he had lost his business, and on the other hand he owed a large amount of money for uninsured merchandise which had been destroyed in the fire.  It was one of the most disastrous things which ever happened to our family.
      During this moment of an indescribable financial crisis, Mr. Carroll put his arm around Dad and said, “Don’t worry about what you owe us.  We’re going to help you get through all of this and get back on your feet.”  This act of compassion helped to save my father from financial ruin.  In the years which followed Mr. Carroll became one of Dad’s closest and dearest friends.
      Mr. Carroll’s act of love and kindness took place over half a century ago; however, his act of compassion lives on in my memory, for in that moment I witnessed the meaning of genuine love.  Here was one human being giving to another human being that kind of gift which money cannot buy.  Although Mr. Carroll died on December 27, 1990, his gift to my father will continue to live in my memory because those kinds of gifts are priceless and have an enduring quality.  One does not forget those kinds of experiences.  Following Mr. Carroll’s death I wrote a special tribute to him, and this was published in a number of newspapers.  After this tribute appeared in the newspapers I received a number of letters and telephone calls from readers who had known and appreciated him.
      But of all the “precious memories” which I have of the old City Hall Building, the one which I treasure most captures an unforgettable experience which unexpectedly occurred on a cold and dreary day around the 20th of December in 1949.  I was six years old at the time.  I stood looking through Dad’s second-floor office window which overlooked Williamson Street below, and that memory is like a winter scene which was painted by Norman Rockwell.  Heavy snow was falling.  Shoppers were hurrying to and fro on the sidewalks.  A recording of Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” was playing over the loudspeakers on the front of the City Hall.  Store windows were decorated, and the city Christmas decorations were suspended over the streets.
      Suddenly, I spotted my father making his way through the crowd of holiday shoppers on the sidewalk and walking toward the City Hall.  He was garbed in his dark overcoat, hat, and gloves; and he was whistling along with the Christmas music.  Dad loved music, especially the beautiful music of the Christmas season.
      I can still hear his footsteps as he climbed the old wooden stairs which led up to the second level, and I remember how thrilled and secure I felt as he walked through his office door and smiled at me.  He walked over to where I was sitting, hugged me, and said, “Merry Christmas, Son.”  It was one of those unforgettable moments that one treasures for the rest of his/her life.  In the words of a song which was popular when I was a teenager, it was one of those “moments to remember.”
      That old City Hall building is gone; Dad was laid to rest years ago (died November 6, 1979); yet that special Christmas memory is permanently etched on the front wall of my mind.  I treasure that precious memory because it enables me to get in touch with the real meaning of Christmas which is the story of a Father who is coming to His children who are longing for love, hope, and security.
      For those of us who lived in Milan during those days, life moved on into new chapters.  In time that devastating fire became a memory.  Many of the old-timers who were part of that drama which unfolded on April 2, 1950 are now gone.  The present City Hall is now in a different location.  However, some very important things happened to a six-year-old boy at that old City Hall during those days in the long-ago.  That lad learned some priceless lessons about life.  He learned that certain problems which seem insurmountable in the present become opportunities in the long run.  He learned about the awesome power of love.  And he also learned this: Though fires may destroy some things which can never be replaced, these same fires enable us to discover and appreciate certain things which can never be destroyed!  (DHL)