Blog  Verb /bläg/
A personal website on which an individual records opinions, links to other sites, etc. on a regular basis
OK, so now what. Where does one start; so much information, so many ideas? And the nagging question: Why?

I’m not sure when exactly it began. The memories are not all that clear. By that I mean they aren’t full in their entirety. They are more like snapshots; snippets of time. The thing I remember the most is definitely the smell, an odor like none other. The instant you walked through the door you were greeted by it. To stay too long would allow it to permeate; providing evidence of the visit to others at home. A keen mixture of mechanical equipment, dampness, and smoke, it was an odor tempered only in strength with the passing of each fire. Over time, especially periods without “work”, the smell would fade, but never entirely leave; always detectable.

The sounds play a close second to the smells. The bullhorn mounted high in the front corner of the apparatus bay echoing all the calls in the area was most prominent and could easily stop a conversation mid-word if the right phrase was thought to be heard. Bullshit was the other sound; men bragging and spinning yarns of past calls, remembrances of past members and members passed, and “the way things should be done”.

I was small then, probably too young to hear some of the words, not that I noticed. I was more interested in the playground-like fire apparatus, fondly referred to as “Engine this” or “Ladder that”. Like the other children lucky enough to accompany Dad to the fire station, I would play fireman, hanging from the tailboard of the pumper, imagining the day when I would have turnouts and get to respond.

Then came the firehouse pranks. Certain acts of mischief are conjured up by the firemen to be acted out with a child as the main culprit. “Goosing” was a favorite, an act in which the child would be goaded into using an adjustable wrench to illustrate the anticipated “uneasiness” of another member when the said wrench was jabbed into the back of a leg, just above the knee. Of course, since a child of such innocence could not be held accountable, the entire episode would become nothing short of a circus show with hopping and pointing heaped with laughter. These were good times, with good men. They shared beer, cigars, and laughter. It was then, as it is now, a brotherhood.

Alarms were announced via a large air horn mounted on a tower at the station. At one time, the number and sequence of horn blasts would signal the alarm box. My memories are that of only three different alarms. I cannot accurately recall what they were other than there was a general alarm, a mutual aid, and one for a local manufacturing plant. I only ever heard two. The phone tree that my grandfather used to sound and advance the alarm had been replaced by the Plectron my father kept on the nightstand. I, too, would someday get a Plectron, because there were not enough Minitor/Minitor II pagers to go around. I was new and would only be around for a year or so before I left for the Navy, therefore not deserving… or so I thought. Regardless, I always seemed to make it to the “workers” and soon made a name for myself as a “good mask man”. I had a lot of help from some good firefighters back then (just as I do today!) and was smart enough to listen to them just enough to keep out of trouble.

Today I find myself nearly 3,000 miles away from that place, still jumping to catch a “job” when one drops in. When I go back, it is the same, yet so very different. I hardly know any of the people and the firehouse isn’t the “hang-out” it used to be, but when I walk through the doors into the lobby, there remains a constant:
Ohhhh, that smell!