Volunteer fire legend still lends a hand

Called an icon, former fire chief Lorenzo Hayes visits the fire station regularly, chatting, offering advice and, as he's always done, helping others.

By ED QUIOCO

© St. Petersburg Times, published August 14, 2000

OLDSMAR -- No matter how busy they are dousing a blaze, Oldsmar firefighters aren't ever surprised to see an old friend roll up in a green Dodge pickup and get out, a toothpick stuck in one corner of his wide grin.

Former Oldsmar fire chief Lorenzo Hayes shows up, many say, because helping is what he loves to do. Often wearing a blue Oldsmar Fire Department T-shirt, Hayes has the seemingly minor distinction of being a volunteer firefighter. But he's much more than that.

Around here, he's a legend.

"He's an icon to a lot of people," Oldsmar fire Chief Scott McGuff said. "I don't think he realizes what an impact he has had on people. Lorenzo's style was that he almost made you feel embarrassed not to be somewhere where someone needed help."

Hayes, 63, has been with the Oldsmar Fire Department for more than 30 years, serving as the volunteer chief from 1972 to 1980 when the city had about 2,600 residents. According to a 1975 St. Petersburg Times story, he perhaps was the first black fire chief in Florida.

Hayes led about 17 volunteers and was a respected and popular local figure at a time when Oldsmar wasn't exactly a melting pot of diversity. When he was a firefighter, an imperial wizard of the Ku Klux Klan lived in or just outside the city limits.

But Hayes never let racism get in his way.

"I never really had a racial problem," he said. "Maybe you can nitpick and find something, but I was never one to nitpick. I don't worry about how you treat me. I just worry about how I treat you."

Friends say Hayes was a gentle leader who showed volunteers how important it was to give their time to the city and opened their eyes to the possibilities of careers in firefighting.

McGuff still remembers the day his father met Hayes at a spaghetti dinner the volunteers held to raise money. McGuff, then about 18, was just starting as a volunteer.

"Lorenzo looked at my dad and said, "You really have a great son and I wish I had 10 more like him,' " McGuff said. "That was one of my proudest moments and probably still is -- someone giving me a nice compliment with my old man there. I was walking on like a foot of air."

Born in Tampa, Hayes moved to Oldsmar in 1959. He joined the Fire Department in 1968 after helping volunteers battle a large fire near the back yard of his home on Douglas Road, where he still lives.

Hayes still remembers when the first stoplight was installed in the city at Race Track Road and Tampa Road in the late 1970s.

"I said, "Boy, the city is going to the dogs now,' " Hayes said. "When I moved to Oldsmar, you could go from here to Tampa and see one car. God help you if you broke down at night because no one would be coming by."

In between working full time as a mechanic for the city of St. Petersburg and responding to about a dozen calls a month, Hayes also spent countless hours at firefighting schools to develop his skills.

"Even though he was just a volunteer fire chief, he had the respect of any paid professional," Safety Harbor fire Chief Jay Stout said. "He was known countywide."

In some ways, being a volunteer chief is harder than leading a paid staff, Stout said.

"You have to be a little bit of a better leader because volunteers can walk away at any time," Stout said. "He was able to keep morale high. He did one heck of a good job and he did it for almost nothing."

When he was chief, Hayes said, huge brush fires were common, especially because most of the city was vacant or wooded. But his biggest blaze was a warehouse fire on Douglas Road in the 1970s.

The volunteer firefighters battled the flames, which caused about $2.5-million in damage, for about a day and a half, Hayes said. "Then we followed up on it for six more days."

Hayes, however, did more than just fight fires. He was a local role model, and it was common for parents to send their children to him to keep them out of trouble.

"Maybe they caught their kids playing with matches or something," McGuff said. "What Lorenzo would do is give them a stern talking-to, as stern as Lorenzo would give anyone a talking-to. Then he would give them some chrome polish and they would have to polish the fire truck just so he could put some sweat on their brow and they would remember their stay."

Along with the Fire Department, Hayes also played host to an annual junior Olympics for neighborhood children, complete with medals.

Ron Rogers, whose father was a former mayor, said Hayes always seemed to be there when he and his cousin, Oldsmar firefighter Aaron Gonzalez, were growing up.

"I know if I called him up today and said I needed to talk to him, he would be here in five minutes," said Rogers, 38.

Hayes is quick to downplay his role, which doesn't surprise his family a bit.

"He brought us up teaching us you do what you do to help someone," said Hayes' daughter Kathy. "You don't do it for show or awards. You do it from the heart."

She said she's not surprised that so many speak so highly of her father.

"I always tell people that if Satan himself came to knock on the door, my dad would invite him in and talk to him and offer him a drink," Kathy Hayes said. "He's genuine. He's not a phony. That's the type of person he is."

Consider, for example, what Hayes recalls about that local Klan member.

"I didn't have a problem with him," he said. "I think we even went fishing a few times."

Over the years, former City Council member Babe Wright and others have tried to persuade Hayes to run for office, but he always has politely declined. Being in the limelight wouldn't be his style, McGuff said.

When Hayes was chief, the volunteer firefighters depended on a specially wired telephone system and sirens on towers throughout the city for emergencies. When residents called the fire station, they were patched through to the phones in every volunteer's home.

The first volunteer to get to the fire station then started the sirens to alert volunteers who were not at home for the phone call.

"Then you pulled out the truck and when everybody got there, you took off," Hayes said. "It worked."

During Hayes' last year as chief, the volunteers began to build the fire station on State Street. With the help of residents and volunteers, Hayes spearheaded a door-to-door fundraising campaign that netted about $60,000.

Using donated construction materials, the volunteers spent countless hours building the station.

"He was always trying to raise money, beg and borrow," Stout said. "He tried anything to keep that department together on a shoestring."

These days, Hayes spends most of his time at the tiny Mount Pleasant Missionary Baptist Church, which is a stone's throw from his house. Hayes, a deacon at the church, helps the church's predominantly black congregation raise funds to make repairs.

But he also often visits the fire station he helped build to chat with McGuff and other firefighters.

"As long as I'm alive and kicking, Lorenzo will be a part of the Fire Department in some way or form," McGuff said. "As long as he wants it, his gear is going to hang on that hook at the station. He is still a mentor to me."

If he's around when firefighters rush to an emergency, he likes to stop and offer to help any way he can, Hayes said.

In December, when a blaze ripped through a two-story apartment building, Hayes was there, offering advice and support. About a month later, Hayes stood next to McGuff as firefighters doused flames shooting from the roof of a vacant building.

"With that grin on his face and his trademark toothpick in his mouth . . . you can't miss him," Stout said. "You only meet a few people like Lorenzo in your lifetime. He sets a good example for anyone to follow."

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