A few years ago, I joined our local volunteer fire department (at the Spousal Unit's suggestion). I might have done it sooner if I thought they'd actually let me in. Since stereotypes abound about volunteer firefighters, I want to set the record straight.
A few years ago, I joined our local volunteer fire department (at the Spousal Unit's suggestion). I might have done it sooner if I thought they'd actually let me in. Since stereotypes abound about volunteer firefighters, I want to set the record straight.
One is that we're boys with toys who like to ride fire trucks and play with our gear. OK, that one may be right, but we're not all boys anymore and the toys come in handy in emergencies.
Another is that we're untrained clods. In reality, nobody is untrained and the standards are strict. Required classes included first aid/CPR, hazardous materials, automobile extrication and basic firefighting, usually with hands-on as well as textbook elements. And that's just the beginning.
Hazmat training was an eye-opener given mountains and rivers of toxic items all around us. It made me realize how vulnerable we are to the ordinary hazards of production, transportation and accident. People can go on with hazmat training clear up to the tech level, where you get to put on a space suit and deal with the nasty stuff. I decided to pass on that, preferring a burning building any day.
Firefighting classes included the science of fire and techniques of fighting it as well as things like crawling through a smoke maze in turnout gear and an airpack, operating hoses and climbing ladders. I even briefly relearned the knots I'd forgotten from Scouts.
At one point, when we were sitting on the ground straddling and operating powerful 2 1/2 inch-wide fire hoses, I asked the instructor about the psychological symbolism involved. He wisely chose to ignore me. Let's just say Freud would have had a field day.
The most fun class was auto extrication, the art and science of wrecks and getting people out of them. It covered anatomy of vehicles, how to open them like sardine cans and the means of removing windows - even when a person's head has gone through one. My personal use of seatbelts increased markedly as a result.
We got to use the pneumatic tools, often called the "jaws of life," that cut, spread, push and generally dismantle vehicles.
At first, we were very proper, carefully applying the techniques we learned on donated wrecks. After a while, however, we dropped all pretense and just started slicing them up like butter. An anthropologist would have thought we were a primitive tribe ritually slaughtering our sacred animal, which mightn't have been far off the mark.
Then came the real thing. The first call I ran was a possible structure fire in the middle of the night. I was half asleep, nervous and very green. I tried to pull on the pants of my turnout gear in the dark, a process hindered by the presence of my suspenders between my legs. I made a note to self that this was not a good idea and managed not to repeat it. It turned out to be a downed powerline instead of a house fire - a welcome letdown, although powerline calls are about as popular as mosquitoes.
Although I live so far out that the engines usually rolled by the time I found my shoes, I made a fair number of calls, involving floods, brush fires, floods, auto accidents, medical calls, dangerous conditions, floods and the occasional structure fire. Did I mention floods?
A few years ago, I joined our local volunteer fire department (at the Spousal Unit's suggestion). I might have done it sooner if I thought they'd actually let me in. Since stereotypes abound about volunteer firefighters, I want to set the record straight.
One is that we're boys with toys who like to ride fire trucks and play with our gear. OK, that one may be right, but we're not all boys anymore and the toys come in handy in emergencies.
Another is that we're untrained clods. In reality, nobody is untrained and the standards are strict. Required classes included first aid/CPR, hazardous materials, automobile extrication and basic firefighting, usually with hands-on as well as textbook elements. And that's just the beginning.
Hazmat training was an eye-opener given mountains and rivers of toxic items all around us. It made me realize how vulnerable we are to the ordinary hazards of production, transportation and accident. People can go on with hazmat training clear up to the tech level, where you get to put on a space suit and deal with the nasty stuff. I decided to pass on that, preferring a burning building any day.
Firefighting classes included the science of fire and techniques of fighting it as well as things like crawling through a smoke maze in turnout gear and an airpack, operating hoses and climbing ladders. I even briefly relearned the knots I'd forgotten from Scouts.
At one point, when we were sitting on the ground straddling and operating powerful 2 1/2 inch-wide fire hoses, I asked the instructor about the psychological symbolism involved. He wisely chose to ignore me. Let's just say Freud would have had a field day.
The most fun class was auto extrication, the art and science of wrecks and getting people out of them. It covered anatomy of vehicles, how to open them like sardine cans and the means of removing windows - even when a person's head has gone through one. My personal use of seatbelts increased markedly as a result.
We got to use the pneumatic tools, often called the "jaws of life," that cut, spread, push and generally dismantle vehicles.
At first, we were very proper, carefully applying the techniques we learned on donated wrecks. After a while, however, we dropped all pretense and just started slicing them up like butter. An anthropologist would have thought we were a primitive tribe ritually slaughtering our sacred animal, which mightn't have been far off the mark.
Then came the real thing. The first call I ran was a possible structure fire in the middle of the night. I was half asleep, nervous and very green. I tried to pull on the pants of my turnout gear in the dark, a process hindered by the presence of my suspenders between my legs. I made a note to self that this was not a good idea and managed not to repeat it. It turned out to be a downed powerline instead of a house fire - a welcome letdown, although powerline calls are about as popular as mosquitoes.
Although I live so far out that the engines usually rolled by the time I found my shoes, I made a fair number of calls, involving floods, brush fires, floods, auto accidents, medical calls, dangerous conditions, floods and the occasional structure fire. Did I mention floods?
Although I was definitely not God's gift to firefighting, in any emergency, there is usually stuff to carry, traffic to stop or hoses to roll while the mechanically apt take care of business.
Probably the most dangerous duty I did was working at some of our bingo fundraisers - some people take bingo real serious. The scariest - aside from a savage nocturnal box turtle attack on a mountain during a brush fire - was writing and trying to manage grants.
The best was providing fire protection for women demolition derby drivers at our county fair. It was an honor to serve to the finest flower of Appalachian womanhood, although they could probably have eaten the fire and punched their way out of any wreck.
I'm very impressed by the skill and dedication of firefighters, most of whom are working people trying to balance jobs and family with the many unpaid hours they give to the community.
I must now address the elephant in the room, i.e. the cat question. To wit: do we regularly rescue old ladies' cats from the tops of trees? The official answer is "No," although the truth is we probably would, especially if bored, in which case we might put it there to start with (with the lady's consent and for ladder training purposes, of course).
I still regret missing a call that involved getting a cow down from the second floor of a rickety barn after it partially fell through. I still don't know how our guys did it.
My inglorious career was cut short by heart problems, but I still miss it.
St. Paul said, "When I was I child I spake and acted as a child, but when I became a man I put away childish things." I beg to differ here. Every little kid knows that fire trucks and fire stations are cool.
And every little kid is right.
Wilson, of Milton, is director of the American Friends Service Committee WV Economic Justice Project and publishes the Goat Rope, a daily public affairs weblog.
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