Our punctuation in P.G. was the fire horn. Mounted on top of City Hall, which was also the fire station in those days, it was part of our identity, our signature of sound, unlike anything else in Western civilization. It was harsh, raucous, insistent and serious in intent.
In Pacific Grove, the horn was part of the fine volunteer tradition. We all had posted in our homes the code telling the approximate location of the fire. “One, One, Three” meant Forest and Lighthouse, etc., and there was a chalkboard in front of the station with the address of the blaze.
Living on Grand Avenue, the horn was the lunchtime alarm. I’d champion to keep it, but I’m sure some of the Come Heres would object.