Sometimes...

You just have to spell things out for firemen...

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The Last Bell

At 2:30 p.m. the tones went off. But it wasn’t a run.

It was the final bell for a fireman who died a couple of weeks ago, while off-duty.

I’m not sure what happened, but there seemed to be a lot of rumor and speculation surrounding his death. Was it a massive heart attack, or simply years of hard living that finally caught up with him? It doesn’t matter to me. By all accounts, he was a great guy--the kind of guy you wanted to be around, the kind of guy who made it fun just to be alive at that exact moment.

Earlier this morning my captain, who knew this fellow fireman well, delivered a eulogy at the funeral. But he was worried that his written remarks would fall short.

“I have a couple of stories,” he told me, humorous stories that would recall crazier times. Stories that would spark old memories, knowing nods of recognition, and laughter bubbling up even through bitter tears.

Thank God.

Thank God we can hold onto that, even in sadness.

Grace...

When my children were born, I admit, my eyes rimmed with water. Tears of joy, to be sure, but perhaps bittersweet as well. Tears that realized the hardships the child would someday face, the loss of innocence, the testing of faith in the crucible of this world.

Strange isn’t it? Just as each new life is often attended by tears, each passing is marked by laughter, as whatever fears we faced in the morning are that same evening the stuff of fond stories...

“...All stations

this concludes

the Final Bell..."

Independence Day

When I pulled up to the station, he was standing on the front ramp in front of the rig. It was early morning July 5th, so the tree-lined residential neighborhood was otherwise quietly nursing a collective hangover after last night’s backyard barbecues and sparkler parties.

The fifty-something captain with salt and pepper hair and trim mustache was waiting patiently for his relief man--the captain coming on duty who would take over for him today.

But in fact, these were the last few minutes Greg would ever spend as a firefighter. His paperwork all handed in, locker cleaned out, and goodbyes made, he was retiring after 28 years of service.

His last shift was Independence Day, the 4th of July.

“I love my job,” I’ve heard a lot of firemen say over the years, “but it’s still a job.” And it has been a great career for me, but there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t find myself daydreaming about walking out that door for the last time.

Some of the guys around the battalion have asked, “Hey, what’s Greg going to do when he retires?” But I don’t think they’re clear on the concept. You don’t have to do anything--that’s the whole point. No EMT re-cert, no continuing ed units, no maintaining a Class B license, no drills, no policy manuals. Nada.

That’s the beauty of it. That’s why it’s called retirement.

A few shifts ago, there was an open house here at the station, and a lot of old friends and fellow firefighters stopped by to laugh, reminisce, shake his hand, or cram him one last time. A couple of inside jokes recalling runs from years ago, a few pictures handed around of past crews, and more than one “Hey, remember the time...”

But that was a few days ago.

Yesterday was pretty quiet, especially for the 4th. Routine stuff, a couple of calls, no big deals. Later that night, the engine posted behind the high school stadium as fireworks rocketed up into the ink-black July night--chrysanthemums of gold raining fiery stars, falling back towards earth.

Looking up into that summer sky, did Greg contemplate the trajectory of his own life, travel back in his memory to sort through the decades of calls? The faces of a thousand strangers, the blank stares of the many dead, the gnarled sheet-metal of wrecked cars, or the cracking timbers of some all-consuming fire. Would he ever be free of some of those ghosts?

flecks of silver

copper

and gold

flames

once brilliant

fading

into the warm night air

* * * *

photo credit: Micah Escamilla at http://mephotographie.com

Independence Day: A Brief History Lesson

Independence Day: That day in 1776 when the American colonists told their British government to pound sand.

Today, some think that this had something to do with “No taxation without representation!” But the truth is that the colonists were represented in parliament. They were a woefully underrepresented and completely marginalized minority in the British system. So Sam Adams (brewer, patriot) and some other hotheads decided that those guys in London could take their representation AND their taxation and STUFF it.

I mean, why not? After all, the salt water in Boston Harbor already had a curiously tea-like flavor. Orange Pekoe, I think.

Thomas Jefferson and John Adams (two of the five authors) signed the Declaration of Independence on July 2nd. Congress then debated, revised and approved the final draft on July 4th. But apparently no one had a pen, because most of the remaining delegates didn’t put their John Hancock on the parchment until August 2, 1776.

I know that these days its incredibly unhip to be a booster of the United Sates. But I’m thankful that those people did what they did back in 1776.

I’m thankful for Crispus Attucks. I’m thankful for those colonists who turned out on Lexington Green a year earlier, and especially those who were killed that day: John Brown, Samuel Hadley, Caleb Harrington, Jonathon Harrington, Robert Munroe, Isaac Muzzey, Asahel Porter, and Jonas Parker.

I think it was worth doing.

The first celebration of Independence Day took place exactly one year later, in 1777, a full six years before Americans would even know if their new nation would survive the ensuing war. And on the 50th anniversary of this grand experiment, July 4, 1826, both former presidents Jefferson and Adams passed away.

Two years ago, I stood on a bridge overlooking the Charles River in Boston, watching brilliant red, blue, and gold stars explode in the black sky, that light reflected in the awestruck faces of my children.

And so we celebrate, and hopefully contemplate all that has been afforded us...

The Journey

"For it will be like a man going on a journey, who called his servants and entrusted his property to them. To one he gave five talents of money, to another two talents, to another one, each according to his ability.

Then he went away...”

* * *

The black cat sat idly, calmly regarding me with his yellow eyes. Behind him, his owner lay dead on the bathroom floor, a sheet draped over his bluish body.

The forest service engine crew had pumped on the man’s chest for over 20 minutes, waiting for our engine and paramedic squad, our defibrillator and drug box. But the address was way up the canyon, an extended ETA for us.

I didn’t know him--didn’t know anything about him. Our lives would intersect only long enough for me to pull a bed sheet over him.

In the hallway stood a walker, and in the foyer an aluminum cane. Brand new stuffed plush toys sat on the credenza, waiting perhaps for a granddaughter’s next visit. A dusty Bible rested on the living room table. The sheriff's deputy interviewed a young man, a friend of the family who discovered the deceased in this otherwise empty house. Our medic absently checked boxes on the county EMS form.

I don’t really know what it adds up to, all these calls.

Somewhere in that dusty black book on the end table, there’s a story about a master who, before leaving on a long journey, entrusts to his servants part of his legacy, his treasure. For years, those stewards had been afforded the opportunity to observe their master, to watch how he invested that which was precious to him. And now it was now their turn to follow his example. But...

“Then he went away...”

Those four words haunt me. Sometimes I think we live in that space, that moment in time, when the master is gone. We inhabit the world he created, and the memory of his words still echo faintly. But we have lost sight of our common purpose. In fear, in self-interest, we have thoughtlessly buried that treasure beneath rough dirt.

And now no sense of peace abides; only that absence, achingly felt. And the sureness of death, patiently waiting.

* * * *

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The Big House

A large, multi-company fire station, often the site of the local battalion headquarters, is frequently referred to as “The Big House.”

Coincidentally, so are state prisons.

I try to avoid both when I can. The reason is that these institutions seem to share several things in common: Bad food, menial labor, indifferent supervisors, and potentially violent dorm mates. Oh, yes, and uniforms.

Some of these “big house” fire stations come with additional monikers such as “The Shark Tank,” conjuring up a foreboding environment of predator and prey, or the “Squirrel Cage,” a place of nonstop, furiously annoying rodent-like activity. I find that the handles generally fit pretty well.

One unfortunate feature is that they also tend to be slow stations, call-wise. This means that there’s plenty more time for meaningless busywork, gossip and intrigue, and company drills. Some days it’s like being back at the academy; other days you feel like a janitor with a badge.

Add to that, most big houses are a combustible mix of brand new boot firemen and crotchety old-timers—two groups that go together like gasoline and Zippos.

Many years ago, after doing my time as a boot fireman, I quickly transferred out to a smaller station with only a single engine and three-man crew. It’s much more manageable. But every now and then I end up at one of these stations on overtime or a shift trade. And it’s always the same: minutes after walking in the door, I regret being there and long to be back at my home station. Nothing like 24 hours in the “Squirrel Cage” to make you appreciate what you’ve got.

Still, some guys love the Big House, and deliberately transfer in and stay for years. Why? It’s the camaraderie, they’ll tell you. The crams, the card games, the laughter, the late-night runs, the practical jokes, the bad calls, and familial elbowing. The fire service is a full-contact sport—a fraternity (minus the beer and panty raids)—and no place will bring home that fact better than the Big House.

With its engines and ladder truck, medic squads and patrols, a multi-company station is built upon an unspoken promise: the opportunity to be a part of something big. Every one has its own history, its own stories and lore, and you can share in that venerated narrative, and perhaps if you’re lucky—or incredibly unlucky—even shape its course.

Chow's On!

“Food, glorious food,

don't care what it looks like,

burned underdone crude,

don't care what the cook's like…”
—“Food, Glorious Food,” from the musical, “Oliver!”

The old lady stared down intently at our shopping cart, trying to assemble in her mind the various ingredients into some sort of coherent meal plan. I could tell she was stumped. Maybe it was the raisins that threw her.

“Who cooks at the fire station?”

Believe it or not, that's probably the most common question asked of us by John Q. Public while the crew is out and about during the day. But if you want further evidence that the human race is devolving, look no further than a fire house kitchen at meal time. Truth is, a zoo keeper faces less danger and enjoys a more appreciative clientele.

Everyone takes a turn cooking at the fire house, which means if you work at a big station you may only get stuck with this chore once or twice a month. But if you work in a small, three-man house like I do, it’s a constant annoyance.

See, left on my own, I have really simple approach to eating that usually involves chunky-style peanut butter and flour tortillas—three or four times a day. But the guys at work have unrealistically high expectations, and as a result I’ve seen some unbelievably elaborate meals attempted in a futile attempt to try to please.

With all the equipment and station maintenance, drilling, classes, and calls, firemen have a pretty busy day, so it’s always been a mystery to me why we make such a fuss over cooking. Few of us are any good at it, and it just takes up a lot of time. But every morning when we sit around the kitchen table discussing the day’s duties and assignments, the scheduled cook-of-the-day is named and money collected.

And so it begins: Groans. Threats. Crew members expressing regret for not having called in sick that day.

“Hey, you’re not going to make the same [expletive] you made last week, are you?”

But at some point during the day, the engine or truck will pull up in front of the Piggly Wiggly (or whatever your hometown grocery chain may be) and disgorge the hapless cook of record clutching a crumpled list. For me, there’s nothing more embarrassing than pushing a shopping cart up and down the aisles while in full uniform, the radio at my belt squawking out calls for other units. Sometimes customers look at me expectantly, as if to ask “Aren’t you going to take that run?” Um, no, it’s not us (as much as I wish this town were on fire—that way we could forget this whole cooking thing and just grab some take-out later).

Late in the afternoon, as crew members work on the rig or finish up paperwork, unfamiliar smells begin wafting out of the kitchen, like some virulent plague being carried via the station’s HVAC ducting. Finally, the intercom speaker crackles: “Station 71…Chow’s on! Chow’s on!”

So, what’s for dinner, you ask? Coarse jokes, cruel insults, personal invective, rude sounds, and of course terrible indigestion—same as last shift.

Typical meal-time banter cannot be reprinted here. Not because you haven’t heard the f-word before—no—but because you haven’t heard it used as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb, gerund, conjunction, and object of the preposition all strung together in one rapid-fire sentence snarled by a hungry crew struggling to describe whatever it is that has just been set down in front of them.

Still, they dish themselves up heaping servings, to the sounds of cutlery clanging on porcelain plates, spatulas scraping pans, and condiment bottles being passed around. “Feed ‘em late, taste great,” as we say in the fire service.

“What is this?” someone inevitably asks.

“Please pass the flavor,” another adds dryly.

The fact is, you could serve up lobster bisque, cold poached salmon with dill sauce, and an 8 ounce filet mignon, and someone would still complain. Too hot, too cold, to well, to rare, too spicy, too bland. The only sure bet in the fire station is onions. Onions and garlic. Lots of ‘em, in everything. And I can’t stand ‘em. I would never kiss a fireman.

Nonetheless, a few short minutes later, when the fellas are done and start to push back from the table, one might hear a couple of backhanded compliments grudgingly given.

“Not bad.”

“What was that?”

Then the table is hastily cleared and a deck of dog-eared cards comes out. Playing cards to determine who will wash all the dishes is a long-standing tradition in many firehouses. Given the questionable origins and seemingly confusing rules, many of the games appear tailor-made to cull out the less savvy new guys, who often find themselves elbow-deep in suds for the night. But I have sat next to battalion chiefs who cheated brazenly while dish duty and a hefty pot of dull quarters and wadded-up dollar bills all hung in the balance.

For all the complaints and crams dished out during dinnertime, every now and then you’ll return from a late night fire call and catch some grumpy old-timer in the darkened kitchen, his face lit up like a waning half-moon by the 25-watt appliance bulb in the back of the fridge, his fingers poking at the cellophane-wrapped leftover meatloaf, as he weighs the prospect of a midnight snack against his chronic stomach condition.

The meatloaf wins every time.