Fireballs: Tools of the Old Days

These were the most common fire glove in use—at least in our area, when I joined the fire department.  I’ve heard a few call them red balls, but they were really more orange than red, a flexible plastic coated material that made them water proof, and if worn with cloth liner gloves, warm in the winter.  The coating was also their worst characteristic, as it could and did melt in fires, and resulted in some nasty burns.  They didn’t smell great or at least your hands didn’t after wearing them for a while.  The sweat build up was absorbed by the inner layer and never went away.  They were in the process of being replaced with heavy lined cowhide gloves that gave better protection from fire, but soaked through quickly—their downside. 

My department resolved this inherent conflict by issuing everyone a pair of each; fireballs and the new leather gloves.  We wore the leathers for the fire attack and the fireballs for cleaning up, rolling and loading hose, and the ever important washing of the rigs when we returned.  I still see a pair around once in a while, inevitably used now only for this last purpose. 

Fireballs and three-quarter boots; tools of the old days.

From the mouths of babes—come Chiefs

Walking in for a visit with a friend of mine, I saw the assistant chief’s buggy outside the building. 

“So, you put a white hat back on?” I asked him.  My friend had been the department chief a number of years ago.

“No, I took a captain’s spot.  That’s his,” he said pointing at a young—well young to me—man who he then introduced me to.  My friend then went on to tell me that the young man’s father had been a captain when he had been chief years before and he knew the now assistant chief since he had been quite young. 

My friend told how the boy had enjoyed his trips to the fire house, looking at the equipment and asking questions.  One day, when he was about five years old, he noticed my friend’s turn out gear in the back of the chief’s car. 

“What’s that for?” He asked. 

“Well, when I get to the fire, I put my gear one,” my friend answered. 

“Really?  My daddy says you just go to the fire and yell at everybody.” 

Dump The House: The Shoes.....

It’s a colorful expression for getting all the apparatus out the door.  It’s more and more difficult these days of limited manpower, both volunteer and career. 

Montgomery County Fire & Rescue Station 15--Burtonsville

What I like best about this picture, though, is the shoes. The empty leather shows the tenuous nature of the work.  It’s late evening, after ten.  One minute, everything is calm.  There is laughter someplace—inevitably in a fire house.  The television is on with a small audience.  Others have turned in for the night.  The bays are filled with the engine, ladder truck, and heavy rescue squad.  A minute later, all that remains is…..the shoes.

A Christmas Excerpt.....

It was the Friday night before Christmas, a crisp  starlit evening.  We were cruising the township roadways with Santa Claus on the rescue.  It was an annual event, much enjoyed by many of the smaller members of the community and, truth be told, by many of the bigger ones as well.   

The lights were flashing, the siren screaming, the air horn blasting and regular sounds of “Ho Ho Ho” were echoing in the night air from behind me.  I rode the officer’s seat in the cab, just enjoying the atmosphere and the smiling children we encountered on our slow tour.  My fun was broken by a radio call. 

 “Comm Center to Chief 36,” the radio query came.  After I responded, the dispatcher asked, “You wouldn’t happen to be out with Santa Claus by chance, would you, Chief?” 

 “Affirmative,” I answered. 

“Can you call in by phone?” the dispatcher asked. 

I didn’t have a good feeling as I reached for the cell phone mounted on the dash.  Was some scrooge upset by the siren noise, I wondered.  When I got the dispatcher on the line, it was nothing like that. 

“Hey, Chief, we just had a call from a grandma on Greenfield Road.  She was upset ‘cause she had been out when you went by and her grandchildren just missed Santa.”

"Please tell me she didn’t call in on 911?” I asked the dispatcher, almost dreading his response.  The 911 emergency line is certainly not the proper method to obtain a visit by Santa Claus. 

  “Oh yeah, she did,” he said with a laugh. 

  “Sorry about that, we’ll take another run down that road.”  We have to take care of a grandma like that, I thought to myself. 

 “Thanks, Chief, and Merry Christmas,” the dispatcher answered, as we both disconnected the line. 

 

Backyard “Training” or What the Burn Barrel Can Teach

The ubiquitous burn barrel isn’t just the source of springtime brush fires when oblivious residents decide to light them when the wind is gusting at forty—so much so that it probably took them five matches to get the stuff going.  It can actually be an opportunity to turn the mundane task of burning trash into a learning experience. 

The backyard burn barrel can be a firefighter’s small scale research lab for fire behavior.  Vertical and horizontal spread and smoke development can all be “studied” in an admittedly limited but still beneficial way while completing a line on the honey-do list.  Try to extrapolate in your mind how these materials, put in a room, would similarly react to this small ignition source.  Notice how the physical configuration; vertical or horizontal, affects the speed of development.  The differences observed from ordinary combustibles when the occasional piece of plastic sneaks into the barrel by “accident” is telling as well. 

An unusual method?  Maybe, but don’t waste a single opportunity to learn from a fire.  The routine job of disposing of papers and boxes can be your own mini training session on fire behavior. 

Heredity Versus Environment: Or Why Does Junior Like Fire Trucks?

Heredity versus environment; the debate has gone on for years.  Now why in the world would this be of interest to the fire service?  Primarily because there are so many multi-generational members in the “family” business.  It is an easier question to examine from the desk than from the jumpseat or chief’s car. 

The premise is based on the theory (I don’t think it’s a theory.  I think its damn well a fact) that only a limited number of people in the population possess the innate ability to go into burning buildings.  Accepting that, why then, are so many of them from the same families?

Exposure to the business through visits to the fire station as a kid can certainly enhance the interest level.  That alone doesn’t provide the ability necessary to make the push through the door. 

I’ve seen many second or third generation firefighters—at least they start out to be one—that were total disasters.  So it isn’t something that is automatically passed from generation to generation.  However, the number of times it does happen argues for more than statistical anomaly.

One of the messages from this is that we should look not just externally, but internally as well for recruiting.  Having my son become a firefighter kept me active many more years than I likely would have been otherwise, so it works for retention as well. 

So the answer to the original question of heredity versus environment is…..don’t know—but it is fun to think about.   

 

Thanksgiving for Firefighters...

Every holiday has a standard set of calls, and Thanksgiving is no exception.  Mornings are for smoked turkey; not the good kind, though.  Ovens that haven’t been cleaned in fifteen years or leaving the plastic bag with the gizzard and liver in the bird can impart a pungent  flavor as well as bringing out the smoke ejector.  This typical run is quickly being overtaken by the more exciting propane fired turkey fryer setting the deck or siding on fire. 

Late afternoons bring the EMS runs for the folks sent home from the hospital for the holiday that probably shouldn’t have been.  As the day darkens and blood alcohol levels increase, domestics or “I wanted the #($* leg” and stranger incidents take over. 

One I still remember was a head-on collision on a quiet tree lined residential neighborhood street; the last place you would expect a wreck like that.  It turned out to be two stubborn liquored up kids playing chicken; nobody gave, and they both ended up losing. 

Makes me look forward to amateur night for drinkers: New Year’s Eve