Half Past Awesome

The Aftermath

The image, like the flash of a lightning strike, is both instant and gone.

He stood there, stooped over, head in hands, looking over what remained of his possessions among a pile of rubble, a pile of what used to be his home. He stood alone, on the slab of a foundation, and I don’t know what he was looking at amongst the detritus. A family heirloom? A photograph of his parents? The last place he saw his wife? I’ll never know.

He was there alone in that moment, and as our fire engine rolled by on the way to another search, I caught a glimpse of him. I caught a glimpse of his personal toll, his destruction, his world collapsed. He looked sad and lonely and broken, an old man with little time left on this planet; his place, his history, his world, now destroyed like everyone else’s living in the path of that deadly torrent of wind and rain and fury.

I don’t know his name, I never will. I don’t know the name of the street, and it doesn’t matter, really. As a fire response unit assisting the victims of the tornado that touched down in Joplin, Missouri on May 22nd of this year, our job was to try and help locate victims and recover bodies of the deceased and whatever needs the command structure deemed prudent. The EF-5 tornado has claimed at least 132 lives as of this writing, and the final toll won’t be known for quite a while, if I had to guess.

There is no way to describe the scope of this furious outburst. I’ve been down there a few times now, and once you cross the line from normalcy to the path of the tornado, you feel as though you’ve stepped way out of the bounds of reality. Google “Joplin tornado” and see if the images can bring an idea of the chaos into comprehension for you; then know that the images aren’t even close to what it’s like to drive for miles with nothing but shredded homes, trees, lives as far as you can see. I cannot compare it to anything I’ve ever encountered. Overwhelming in it’s presentation, depressing in it’s effects, it is a stark and saddening reminder of the frail grip we have on control of our lives. We may hold dominion over all sorts of creatures great and small, but in the end we’re links in the chain ourselves, our position no more assured than that of any other. And that’s of little comfort to those who’s lives have been ripped apart in one angry swipe of furious winds.

Silently, with lights flashing so as to help us navigate the traffic snarls a little faster, our fire engine hastened from site to site whenever canine units got hits on the scent of human flesh, each an exercise in futile optimism. We scoured the high school, an empty and shredded cavern of what was supposed to be a safe haven from the troubles of this world, natural and otherwise. We fruitlessly searched several commercial establishments, trying to locate what may have been missed in the moments and first hours after the rage.

But I kept coming back to him in my mind. The old man there, on the foundation of his home. His eyes, in the moment that I caught them, glassy and confused and lost. What good are three firemen in a yellow truck going to do him? We can’t bring back his house, his life, maybe a loved one. We aren’t going to be able to rebuild a lifetime of memories with brick and framing and new windows. We can’t even stop to offer him solace as we’re in a hurry to get to the next call; it wouldn’t matter anyways, since people were lingering around each and every remnant of a home, each taking stock in their losses. Something about him really hit me hard, though. I wanted to stop the rig and throw an arm around the guy. I couldn’t rebuild his life in that day, nor any amount of time. I’m not from Joplin, I won’t be there months from now when he’s still trapped by the memories of that destruction, helpless against the storm. I don’t even know what he was looking at, or for. None of that matters, though….in that moment, he’s another broken human, maybe in need of comfort and solace, and I wanted to give that to him. It reminded me of why the fire service is such an incredible vocation. For the briefest of moments, we can help make a terrible situation just a little less terrible, we can connect with people who need help, need comfort, need a helping hand.

Maddeningly, we couldn’t help this man. As we sped off through the intersection, and I kept my eyes on him, my soul ached for him slightly. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you have had to endure this, sir. There’s nothing I can offer you except a heart that’s willing to offer some solace, and even that’s limited – they’ve called us over there, and you’re over here, and I have to go. I’m sorry. Later on, back in Springfield, when no one is around and life is seemingly normal, I’ll wonder about you and be overwhelmed by sadness for your loss. I’ll hope someone has thrown that arm around you and comforted you and helped you to begin to pick up the pieces. I wish that someone was me, that we’d been able to stop right there for you. I’m just so sorry.

He Who Ages Right

It happened the other morning; while taking in my craggy visage in the morning mirror, I was shocked more than usual at what was looking back at me. There, beyond the fog and crow’s feet and self doubt lay one of two possibilities; either there was a tremendous prom-night special zit growing there or my first gin blossom had bloomed. Panic, either way. Panic.

See, the timing was somewhat fortuitous. I turned 37 the other day, and graceful it was not. Unlike George Clooney, who quipped “I’m kind of comfortable with getting older because it’s better than the other option, which is being dead”, I’m really not all that great with the descent to 50 and mortality itself. In fact, I really have nothing at all in common with Clooney, so this isn’t that surprising at all.

Panic itself blossomed into hyperactive screeching at myself, as an enraged chimp might at the sight of a perceived enemy in a mirror, and after a minor fit of smacking the sink and howling at the sky “whyyyyy? whyyyyy???”, I came to my senses and calmed down. Okay, the pain indicated that despite the fact that I’ve only taken to drinking gin for, like, a week or two, this was most likely a zit, a throwback to days of yore, when most of your worries centered around getting carded. I was joyous and in pain all at once. My body, in all of it’s creaky lumbering towards the pine box, was still capable of creating oily messes known and reviled by teenagers worldwide. Enraged screeching was replaced by victorious thumping upon my chest, which led to shooting chest pains and a coughing fit. Victory, nonetheless.

The morning’s episode led my to contemplate other, more ominous signs of my impending doom. I’m not talking about the obvious choices, like having someone pre-chew my meals or watching “Murder, She Wrote”, but rather, more insidious and subtle hints that I’m growing long in the tooth. Over a heart-healthy breakfast of bananas and a piece of whole grain cardboard, I realized I was wearing gray socks to the gym. No, I didn’t just stutter that last line. Gray socks. Not the gray socks your pappy wore with sock garters and polyester and hair tonic. No, no, these are athletic socks, designed to wick buffalo-style sweat from your ankles and propel you to run even faster. Or something like that.

I realize that the athletic advances one might gain from a pair of socks is the equivalent of sporting a goatee to distract from your multiple chins: sure you may not see the layers of turkey waddle at first when sporting chin pubes, but believe me, everyone knows what you’re up to. Same with these socks. If I’m a fantastic lard-ass in knee high tube socks, I’m no less the hairy hog in these awesomely airy and sleek gray numbers, and I’ll run no faster. But I’ll feel it, my friends. And isn’t that really the key to better living through denial? The perception, in your own mind, that you’re not really getting older, that clearly it’s a MISTAKE that they’re playing Nirvana on the “classic rock” station, that some people might be referencing you as “that kid” as in “that kid sure has his stuff together! He even has his own house at age 37!” Reality is best left to accountants and youth should actually not be wasted on the young.

As breakfast wound down, and I commenced to stretching out in order to be able to slip on my shoes, I couldn’t help but smile. I smiled at the thought that despite my best efforts, I’ll continue to trip and fall into the sunset years of living. I smiled at stupid sayings made up by middle agers, like “40 is the new 30″. That’s a bunch of bull. Sure, not too many generations ago, people barely made it to age 40 if they were lucky, but let’s face it, when you’re 40, you’re still 40 and halfway to the graveyard on a GOOD day. And smiling because I feel kinda lucky to have made it this many years so far. No more proms for me, even if prom-like harbingers such as acne and crippling insecurity plague my existence now and then. I smile about that, too.

And, as I hobbled out the door in my overpriced running shoes to spend another hour at the gym giving the Reaper the single finger salute, I smiled as well. Good times they await all of us. Even those of us old enough to wear gray socks in public.

Rep Number 36 Goes Up / photo courtesy Christi Clark Photography

Three days ago, I participated in the CrossFit Springfield’s 2nd annual Guns & Hoses Team Competition a fund raising endeavor aimed at benefiting the Wistrom Family Foundation, a truly worthwhile cause aimed at helping children with cancer. ALMOST as important, though, was the chance for military service members, cops and firemen to compete against one another, a chaotic stew of testosterone and nerves and borderline projectile vomiting. At age 36 and years of bad choices behind me, the concept of competing in athletic endeavors (outside of ice hockey) holds little appeal; I’m too old, the NHL ain’t calling, I gotta work tomorrow, my kids have beaten the spirit out of me, the list of excuses goes on and on as to why I don’t take up the chance to compete in much of anything anymore, outside of an ongoing chess match with my liver.

So when I was approached by some younger firemen from Station 2 about putting together a team for this competition, my first instinct was to duck and cover and pretend I didn’t hear them. But there’s only so many hiding places in a firehouse. Eventually, I had to give them an answer, and after several rounds of me saying “really? What, you need a John Candy-type on your team?“, I relented and made them promise to give me a decent burial when I inevitably died on the competition floor. As the days ticked down to competition time, my nerves begin to fray and unravel at a record pace. I’m old, man, and there’s really no need to humiliate myself any further in a public forum, especially as I do it on a regular basis just fine.

And then it was time. This was the time where Rocky theme music was supposed to cue up in my mind, shadow boxing in the mirror as I took one final shower before the event, setting my mind right, right? No. Clearly, I’ve watched far too many movies, and the reality of the whole time leading up to the competition was absent of motivational music, save for the screaming torrents of Dropkick Murphy tunes cranking in the bathroom. It’s a quiet desperation of sorts, really. I’m not in the best shape in the gym, knowing that I’m a relatively weak link on the team, and about to risk some real injury, both to my body and what is left of my self esteem. That sets up a morose cloud of doubt lingering over your personal skies, but, then, what are ya gonna do? Backing out at this point is the equivalent of backing out of a house fire: that shit will follow you for the rest of time.

As the events were described and teams assigned heats, I began crawling out of my head with nervous energy. These guys were serious, Marine Corps guys strutting about, cops from different towns all giving the eye to one another, firemen nervously joking about needing an ambulance on standby (okay, that was me), and a general tension that always precedes competitions of strength and stamina. I just needed the thing to start, already. Get me in the game, and this sensation of dizzy nausea may pass. Too soon, the race had begun. I’d describe the various events, but if you’re not familiar with the CrossFit lingo it’s just gonna come across like the cult mumbo-jumbo that it is. The exercises consisted of lifting of heavy weights, swinging of other heavy things, jumping up and down and over, lunging with random heavy objects over your head and tossing heavy sandbags over tall bars. You know, stuff you might never, ever encounter in your life. Ever.

To sum it all up let me just say this: in all my life, in whatever endeavor I’ve ever undertaken, I’ve never been pushed so hard physically to the point of a breakdown. It was set up as a team effort, so to quit or give up was to force three other people into forfeiting all of their efforts. I can insert all types of trite, catchy athletic “dig deep”-style phrases here, and you know what? THEY WOULD ALL BE TRUE. To force yourself to continue when all logic and reason demands you give up defies the physical imperative of the body, and it becomes a war of wills. To confront that wall and slog through the marsh of oxygen deprivation robbing your body of rational thought is a scary, and emotionally draining experience. This competition demanded slamming into this wall repeatedly to the point of sheer exhaustion and near collapse.

It sucked. Plain and simple.

Each time I reached down to grab that bar for another lift, when my back and legs and arms and lungs screamed for sweet release, my teammates, the people who’d come to cheer people on and the sheer force of will were driving forces compelling me to continue. I wish I could say that I was mentally strong enough to conjure up images in my mind of continuing in honor of some hero, or a sick kid or that bully in third grade who pretty much ruined my grade school experience, but I’d be lying. At some point there was no more room for thought, no more room for cliched imagery to motivate. Nothing was left but that most basic of drivers: instinct. The voices in the background were muffled, eyesight was clouded by sweat and chalk, and it was a lonely place to be left. Instinct to finish what I’d started was the only push left. Ridiculous faces and ridiculous amounts of sweat and stupid grunts all in the name of instinct.

Countless hours (or, like, two) later we staggered across the finish line, somewhere in the bottom of the rankings of the ten teams that entered. That didn’t matter. Three friends and I finished. We went to the bottom of our wells of will and extracted every last bit. I’m so proud of them, so proud of us for laying our guts and souls out there on the floor. I’m thankful to the coaches and staff and volunteers from CrossFit Springfield who offered their free time to guide us through the pain. I’m grateful for ThunderChicken who had the dubious honor of being my assigned coach, dutifully counting out the reps, vocally shoving me further and further out of my comfort zone, just like he has since the first day I set foot in the box. These people showed us, showed me, what was possible if you push yourself over the edge.

It’s a hell of a place to find yourself, at the bottom of that tank.

It’s quite another to crawl back out of it.

Close Enough

Day 3 of the Super Incredibly Fantastic Special Extra Happy Trip Of 2011 consisted of taking in a concert. Not just any old concert, mind you, but one I’ve been anticipating with the drool of a starving dog in a steakhouse. We’re talking Mumford & Sons, a barely-four-year-old band that everyone declares to have heard of first, thereby infusing that hipster element into otherwise good music. Myself, I was turned on to them by El Jefe, a man who’s musical tastes run the gamut and who’s opinion I respect.

My brother Buns was able to procure tickets because, like the character Red in Shawshank Redemption, he’s the kind of man who knows how to get things; his silver tongue works magic, enough that he once met me at the gate of my arriving flight with Starbucks in hand, thereby violating just about every TSA rule imaginable. But I digress. This concert was the crux of my trip out to California, and the first time I’d set foot in the Santa Barbara County Bowl since some time in the early 90′s, probably to catch a Steel Pulse concert or something along those lines. Again with the digressing (note to self: up the ADD meds by three or four pots a day).

His friend having the quintessential bachelor pad within walking distance of The Bowl ensured that the pre-concert get-together would be sponsored by a vodka of indeterminate origin and lots of it. This compounded the issues of hiking up to the venue itself, a fantastic lovechild of perfect musical platform and stunning setting. We skipped the opening act in favor of standing in line for some decent enough beers and the usual jostling and splashing and wondering why some people bring their small children to such events.

And that turned out to be perfect, at least for me.

I was there to see Mumford & Sons, not The World’s Tallest Band (opening act), talented though they may be. After some shuffling and milling about, complete with Sound Check Guy who needed to make pretty much a damn scene out of his last minute duties, the boys strolled out, and jumped right in. And I mean JUMPED RIGHT IN. You know how there are certain acts you see where you’re thinking “man, this is okay, but really, I’m good just listening to the recorded version of —-”? Let’s be frank…no one comes away from a Britney Spears concert and ready to prattle on about her musical talents. Lip synching and gyrational dirty hooker dancing skills aside, of course. Such was not the case with these British lads.

They tore into their set, and yes I just called them lads since they’re about a decade younger than I, with the vigor and vinegar of men possessed. Musicianship, tragically beautiful lyrics and a fire unleashed all came together in a furious moment, as though we’re watching the tornado actually touch down in the trailer park. EVERYone in the crowd knew the lyrics, EVERYone was belting them out in hackneyed attempts at British accents, EVERYone seemed to be bouncing up and down in rhythm to the percussive music that was, to continue the bad analogy, sweeping us all up in its path. At the risk of being labeled a dirty hippie by my family, the energy that enveloped the entire show was contagious from beginning to end. I found myself beaming like an idiot, the sonic waves crashing into us and making us happy and peaceful and joyously riotous all at once.

Of course, as I read that last sentence, I realize what an idiot I sound like, but truly, that’s how it felt. I’ll never go to a Britney Spears concert, the good Lord willing, and as we get older and opportunities to experience this kind of communal groundswell of musical energy lessen, I’m thankful for those rare occasions to watch and experience young masters at their craft. They unleashed some new numbers, including one called “My Lover’s Eyes” that was, surprisingly (for a first hearing of a new song), already perfect. These guy were that good. To think they do this night after night, town after town, lends even more respect to what it must take to deliver such creative output; to witness them pouring their souls out like that was quite the moving experience.

Do yourself a favor: go out and buy Sigh No More, their album and give it a listen…it’s pretty damn good. Then, go see them in concert. It’ll change the way you think about how a concert should be put on by real musicians. Do this with a good beer and good people and that? Will make for one hell of a good night.

Good Times Had By All

I’m on the road currently. The ostensible reasons are to get out of Springfield, catch a great concert with my brother, recharge my batteries for another couple rounds in the firehouse and lastly, general tomfoolery. All still going to plan, too. I spent an evening at the local watering hole of my hometown, The Old Cayucos Tavern, catching up with people I’ve not seen in a dozen years or more. It’s always good to know that over time nothing too much changes, except that everyone seems to have kids and jail time under their belts to show for it. Someone is now a commercial fisherman in Alaska, some are working, some are fighting, many broken promises being argued about over the sound of a great band,  a band much better than the raucous trash that used to play there when I was a kid sneaking into the joint. All the small town drama is still in full swing, bikers and surfers and ranchers and truckers all living life in a jilted awkward dance set to the rhythm of life in a sleepy beach town.

And while it’s always good to check the ties that bind you to your youth, I’ve also spent time engaged in an act that I’ve neglected for far too long. This trip has been marked with miles on the road checking in with family, blood and otherwise. My mom’s sister, who I’ve not seen in twelve years, recently moved to California to be close to family, so I popped in unannounced, seeing if I could give her a heart attack by ambush visiting her. She’s a delightful and kind soul who spent her younger years getting arrested for protesting acts of animal cruelty, then proudly mailing me the newspaper clippings of her being led off after chaining herself to a mule diving platform. Now she’s toddling around an assisted care facility, walker at the ready, eyes still alive and vibrant with an independent spirit that I recognize.

I also pounded some Central Valley miles out to check in with my grandparents, something that is a bit of a ritual to me now. The parents of my stepfather are old-school farmers, no-nonsense people who raised a large family in Bakersfield and don’t suffer fools lightly. There’s no time for that when you’re carving a life out of the fertile desert floor, and yet despite their stern demeanor that I remember so well, there is an abundance of love in their hearts for family. Grandpa served in the military in WWII, and those years are the subject of our conversations, limited as they are. I’m just grateful, I suppose, not only for his service, but for their accepting me into the family when I was a confused kid, desperate for a place to fit in with my new family. In their nineties now, it’s with a melancholy heart that I realize our short visits won’t be going on too much longer;  in those moments, I’m trying to memorize all the details, never forgetting to let them know that I love them before I leave. I’m sure this verbal acknowledgment, while foreign to a generation of tough men and strong women, falls upon their ears and makes them smile, even if a little.

I also drove up to Cambria to visit my mom while she was at her quilting retreat, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, a half dozen ladies chirping about and creating beautiful pieces of art for loved ones. They were wearing their pink Springfield Fire Department tee shirts, purchased last year as a collective effort to contribute to raise money for breast cancer awareness. Mom no doubt coordinated the wardrobe for the day I’d visit, a sweet effort from a sweet woman, embarrassed as she is to have brought me into this world. She still refuses to believe I have a tattoo, a point she made to me and anyone else in earshot, and that’s okay, too. As she was explaining to me just how disgusting I would look as an old man with saggy ink, and I was telling her I had no plans on getting old, I had to smile. My mom & I, my earliest ally in this world, the one who has tolerated me from the get go, lecturing a 36 year old me on my behavior. I missed that. She was more than happy to point out my flaws, and I loved it.

Finally, I visited Steve and Joanie, old friends from way back in the day, surrogate parents to a younger, cockier me. I wrote about Steve quite a while back (read here) and, as ever, it was good to be in their embrace, to feel the genuine love that comes from people who you love you despite yourself. I miss them greatly, and as I walked through their house, marveling at Steve’s impeccable style and skill with woodwork, I felt at peace, at home. I got in some meals with my stepdad and uncle, mentally taking me back to a time when they were aggressive framers and builders, catching their coffee at Skippers in the morning fog before strapping on their toolbelts and creating homes of immaculate precision. RoJo and family came up for an afternoon, and to see his son growing up in his image is shocking, indeed. I couldn’t be a more proud psuedo-uncle.

So, that was the first two days. Two days of a mad rush, hoping to cram in time with those I need to recognize more often. Family. That’s the thing.

March 25, 2011. A date that shall live in obscurity for most. But for me, it marked a new beginning, a transition of sorts. Before you go hauling off and accusing me of undergoing a phase of cross-dressing or jaywalking with reckless abandon, let’s clear it all up. Rather than buying a red sports car or running off as a roadie for a disease-laden traveling punk band, I marked the occasion simply, in a classy fashion, one that will make my mother’s heart break: I got a tattoo.

Now, the constraints of my employment mandate that placement of aforementioned tattoo was of the highest priority. In common terms, no neck tatts or anything on my forearms (unless I want to wear nothing but a neck brace and long sleeves for the rest of my career). And as far as the neck  rules go? I’m good with that. We’ve got a guy on our hockey team with neck ink who, coincidentally enough, takes his fake tooth out before each game, making him even more menacing looking. I’m twice his size yet the neck work and toothless grin say one thing and one thing only: you don’t mess with me. I oblige him. Avoiding the forearms wasn’t too troubling, either, since I have basically spaghetti noodles for arms, a source of middling shame.

So, to the thigh we went. I see this as a form of insurance. Never in my life, ever, do I want to consider Speedo-style, European man bikinis a viable option for bathing in public. It doesn’t matter if I’m on a beach full of Jaques on the Mediterranean coast, I’ll be the guy in regular shorts, sans gold chains, cigarette and most importantly man-kini. Insurance for me, insurance that you need not ever catch me in a pair of plum smugglers in public.

The design? A Maltese Cross, the symbol of fire departments the world over, with a Celtic weave in it and the Gaelic term for “brotherhood” inscribed, as a nod to the traditions and history of the fire service. Also, the year I entered the career as a paid professional, since it was a year of fantastic, and great, change. The artwork took several rough drafts on my desk and many a Guinness for me to finally come to terms with, but I’m glad, since most decisions like that are best left to several rounds with your creative conscience. When the moment finally came to step up and get the work done, I’d done my homework and decided that Ethen at Hearts Of Fire here in Springfield really had a style that I liked and respected. His work graces many of my friends here, and it wasn’t a tough decision at all.

On that fateful night, I finally took the painful plunge. Like all procedures I’ve gotten, we started out with me getting clammy and sweaty and unimpressing the hell out of Ethen. I suspect he had no desire to lug my ass off the ground once I’d passed out completely. I couldn’t blame him, but since it felt like a thousand bees were busy stinging the ever loving shit out of my thigh, I just sat there, bobbed and weaved for a few minutes; after promising that looking like a corpse was my usual modus operandi, he proceeded. We swapped stories, gruesome fire tales for crazy inking situations, his hands working fast and with purpose. I wish I could have detached and appreciated how he’d taken my drawing and was committing it to my body, a weird marriage of organic art and permanence. I was too busy focusing on the wall, on The Wife who’d surprised me by dropping in the studio to witness the crying & carnage. One of my best friends stopped by as well, so as to mock me, silently at first, and then later back at Patton Alley Pub, somewhat more loudly.

Two hours doesn’t normally pass so slowly, but in this case it did. The work he did was incredible, in terms of the accuracy and skill. As the days have passed, I’ve remained very happy, indeed, about my choice in getting my first tattoo. You can’t crash a tattoo into a tree and kill yourself, and yet it serves as a reminder of a moment in time, or in my case, a life in a certain career. It will always be there, and for that I’m grateful. Unfortunately for my bank account and skin, I’ve also succumbed to the addiction. Like coffee, bacon and reckless behavior, I think I’ve just added to my list of great loves.

Thanks, Ethen.

"It was THIS big"

Yesterday was another one in the books at the firehouse. I was working as captain on the Engine Company, which translates roughly into “they had no else qualified”. We made an interesting call or two around our district, visited Lyle and his manager down at Big Momma’s coffee, observed the comings and goings of our regional homeless shopping cart pushers. All in all the day was looking to stay on an upbeat note, outside of the people having emergencies dire enough to merit a call to 911.

As we rolled east on Commercial Street towards the next medical call, I was struck by the wail of the wind-up siren as the sonic assault reverberated off of the tall buildings. Between the air horns and the Federal Q “Meatgrinder” siren, there is no mistaking the cacophony headed your way. Pedestrians cover their ears sometimes, kids pull against their mothers protective restraint towards us, waving like maniacs and grinning from ear to ear. Drivers on cell phones sometimes act oblivious to the lights and sirens, and then swerve wildly upon realizing there’s 30 tons of fire apparatus trying to get their attention. We can’t hear just how loud it gets since we’re wearing headsets, protecting our ears and allowing us to converse in hushed tones as opposed to screaming at one another over the symphony of insanity.

Back to the now, and as we head out, the wailing continuing it’s lilting song of warning, I’m keenly aware that the very howling that alerts everyone else to an emergency brings me a calm, the likes of which I cannot describe. Rather than getting amped into panic, the sirens soothe me, they remind me of why we’re here, away from our loved ones, spending time with people who don’t necessarily want to spend time with us. More importantly, I think I love the Q since it represents the symptom of a bigger issue: I’m addicted to the chaos.

When the tones hit the station, the engine and ladder truck are fired up in the bay and the lights turned on, the whole game is changed. Driving laws alter, if only slightly. Citizens can’t complain to the newspaper that we’re “just sitting around”. We never know what’s on the end of the call, whether it’s going to be pretty boring (usually is) or, like last night, unhinged pandemonium, stabbings and blood and terror. We’re jumping into the fray, be it a house on fire or a multiple car pile-up in an intersection. And it’s a rush.

I’d be lying if I said otherwise. We, too, become junkies, looking for that rush in the form of a busy firehouse. Most guys WANT to be headed to calls, they WANT to help, and soon, too soon, they sort of NEED to make calls to remind themselves why they’re in this gig. No one becomes a firefighter for the high pay. Some people say it’s because the schedule is so open, and I’ll admit, that’s a big draw for me as well; it allows me the time to be a better dad, to spin tall tales such as this. But mostly, I’m hooked.

Hooked on the chaos. Hooked on the unknown. Hooked, addicted, in love, call-it-whatever, to the rush. The surge in the emotional and physical inconsistencies keeps me coming back for more, year after year. Nothing compares to it, not my years as a volunteer fireman, not my work in the oil fields of Alaska’s North Slope nor the freedom afforded me by a ride down the backroads on the motorcycle.

We’re all hopelessly in love with it, somehow. Even when the calls are bad, they’re calls. When the politicians talk out of both sides of their mouths, that’s frustrating, but nothing unusual, and that’s not worth losing the love, either.

Next time you hear the wailing chorus of horns and sirens and lights on a fire engine, take a look up in the cab. Chances are, one of the guys up there is grinning like a goofy bastard, like your dog might as he hangs his head out the window. Someone up there is working the siren, a beautiful song in their ears.  The call may be serious, but the ride? Totally worth it.

And I Shall Be Known As "Runs With Poop"

The dog pissed on me.

In full glory, in front of man and beast, the little shit lifted his leg and marked my shoe.

I’ve always hated dachshunds.

So began the Muddy Paws 5k trail run, nothing between breaking my ankles on wet rocks and victory except some little dog taking a leak on me. I’d entered my rotund 5 year old Boxer, MoJay, after my attempts at convincing a co-worker to don a dog collar and fake tail ran into some resistance. We were a team, Mo & I, even though he had no idea what was coming when I loaded him in the truck.

I’m no runner, this is a fact. I made a pact with myself in November of 2010 to run at least one 5k race a month, and outside of nearly crippling myself and missing February, I’ve held to it. My only goals? To not die and to pull in times under 30 minutes. Nothing wild. Nothing crazy. So far, I’ve been successful in narrowly avoiding the grip of the Grim Reaper, and my times have all been sub -30. The best? 28:20. I might add that I beat several children in blue jeans in one of my races, and I consider that to make me a “winner”, even if their parents didn’t appreciate my hockey-style elbowing of their kids towards the front of the pack. Hey, it’s a vicious world out there.

Meanwhile, as I’m registering at the race table for this run, I hear a woman yell loudly “NO, ROCKY! NO!” I assume any dog named “Rocky” is a tiny ankle biter, the name being bestowed as a form of compensation. Short dog, short dog syndrome.  AND THEN THE SMELL HIT ME. I turned around and, as yellow humiliation was dripping off my shoe, the dog cast me a hairy eyeball, as if to say, “Yeah, that’s right, you belong to me.” I was overcome with the urge to punt the little bastard across the park, but felt that might not be the right way to start the day, making friends like that. However ballsy the dog was feeling, the owner had no such compunctions. She was staring up at the treetops, as though she had no idea I just heard her yelling at Rocky before he soiled me. I looked at her and said “you do realize your dog just pissed on me, right?” She couldn’t deny it, yet she finally said something like “oh, really? Did MY dog do that?” Yeah, lady, he’s practically bragging about it to the other dogs at this point, and I smell like rancid urine. I’m also pretty sure I saw my dog laughing at me over the issue as he spent time inspecting the asses of every dog with which he came into contact.

Fine, pissant hounds. Let’s run this thing. Earbuds in, the start is given, and next thing I know, MoJay is dragging me through the woods, following the trails all on his own. We’re bounding past the marker flags, through the water, back up a hill, annnnnnd wait. Let’s stop and take a dump right here. Really, MoJay? Right here? Yup, right here, so all the pretty she-dogs and their owners can catch a peek at my hound copping a squat in a regal fashion. So grateful they provided us bags to pick it up, because what would make this even better would be to tote a bag of shit for a few miles. Thankfully there was a fireman buddy close by, as the race was put on by his wife’s organization, and he was monitoring the whole thing. He was upstanding about taking the sack of poo from me, and we trucked back down into the woods.

And there he was.

The Pisser.

Getting carried up a hill, a smug look of triumph on his stupid little dachshund face, The Pisser was back. Had it not been for the consequences, I may well have punched the dog in the face just to even the score. His owner/servant had a look of resigned despair on her face, probably realizing it would be hard to cross the stream with a dog 8 inches tall. I would’ve gladly drug him through, but refrained from making the offer. No time, though – MoJay was dragging me back down the trail, furiously intent on catching up to the hind end of some glorious female that was driving him plum loco. For a fat bastard, that dog was moving like a wildfire, slobbbery goo flying back and nailing me in the legs.

And then we rounded one last corner, covered in mud, slobber and and exhaustion, both our tongues hanging out. There was the finish line, right there in front of us. Weird. That didn’t seem that bad. Maybe I’ll do better being drug by a dog for miles through the woods as opposed to just elbowing kids out of the way on the pavement. Best of all, there was no Pisser in sight. Maybe he ran into a tree trying to mark it from his owners arms.

My time?

24:11.

Wow. Nice job, MoJay. Good dog.

A Toast

"When a horse learns to buy martinis, I'll learn to like horses." S. McQueen

To the dawn of the new season

and the awakening of the soul

To the idea that the little things matter

To those we miss

To family

To friends who don’t waver, and to whom we never will

To those serving our country, without politics

To my grandfather who wasn’t afraid to whack me with his cane when the occasion warranted it

To passion

To the perfect pairing of food and spirit

To another day in the books

and the possibilities for tomorrow

To random questions and unorthodox answers

To the echo of  the strings as sweet music is created

To open doors and the hopeful knock of the bold

To a well crafted pint

To all that we have to offer one another

I salute you.

Sláinte!

E-2 By Night

Funny how it’s all intertwined, how it all works.

Two days ago, I was driving my oldest to the doctors office to deal with an ear infection/strep throat. As I looked in the mirror while he was wailing and crying, I found myself fighting back my own tears. Say what you will, when it’s my own child, one of the very few people on this earth that I love unconditionally, and he’s hurting and there’s nothing I can do about it? It claws at my soul. His pain is mine. I can’t make it better, despite the pleading look in his eyes, begging me to make it better for him, tears rolling freely down his cheeks. He wants his Dad to make it stop; I’m hauling ass down the highway furious at no one in particular, holding his hand while my heart is breaking.

One day ago, we had the fire department awards ceremony; at the event, the unfortunate tragedy involving three children perishing in a house fire was mentioned, which triggered another cascade of memories for those involved, directly or otherwise. The issue came up later at a post-ceremony watering hole, and when asked about if I’d ever dealt with that kind of situation, it reminded me of my worst shift in 11 years here, one in which a child died in a house fire; I’d located him and had to bring him downstairs past the grieving family members. The Wife was pregnant at the time, and it hit me in a way that has never left. People die, accidents happen, but when it’s the young, the innocent among us, the tragedy is exponential in its damage emotionally. It never gets better, no matter the years on the job. Kids affect us all, from green rookies to the toughest old grouchy bastards.

So this morning, when we’d already worked one car wreck within minutes of coming on-duty, and the tones rang out for another accident, I shrugged on the gear and told the boys it looked to be another one of those days. Our captain is off-shift, putting me in his seat, which means more paperwork, less shenanigans. The comments came through that it was a vehicle versus bicycle, with the victim being the ten year old cyclist. Instantly, the situation turns far more serious. Less chatter in the cab, more mental focus, as we learn that police are on scene, which does not bode well; unlike hysterical-but-well-intentioned citizens, when the cops are on scene and roads are blocked, it can’t be good.

We arrive to lots of people yelling, chaos, mass pandelerium, as it were. We find our patient, a ten year old boy, in the ditch, the rear of his bike folded up, and he’s screaming and crying, thrashing in pain. An off-duty medic is there giving us her assessment, and the edge in her voice indicates her worry. More people arrive, the ambulance, finally. We’re trying to stabilize this child, who was riding to school when hit by a van. Our emotions are all over the map, but now is not the time. I’m mad at the grandmother in the muumuu, who, while declaring she’s the legal guardian, didn’t force the kid to wear a helmet. I’m mad at the van driver, although I don’t know who’s fault it is. I’m mad at the kid for not wearing a helmet, as the damage to his head is leaving blood on our gloved hands. But most of all, we’re focused. Now is not the time. Later, I keep telling myself. Now, he needs our help. He’s crying, his pain transmitting loud and clear, and radiating through all of us around him.

One of the firemen and I load up in the ambulance to assist the medic for the seemingly endless journey to the hospital. Muffled radio traffic and wailing sirens permeate the background as we focus on our little man. One moment he’s screaming, and when his eyes crack open, as I hold the oxygen to his face, they plead with me. He wants me, us, someone, anyone, to take away the pain. C’mon, kid, scream your lungs out. It’s ok, I’m here. We’re here. I’ll take screaming, because screaming means you’re still with us.

And then he isn’t. His vitals are there, still solid, he’s getting oxygen, but he goes out cold, unresponsive. No tell-tale fogging of the O2 mask. This is terror. I can’t take this. C’mon, kid. We’re almost there. A little pressure here, some steady murmuring, and in an instant, he’s screaming again, clutching my hand, begging me with those eyes. The medic is working her best, my crew-mate is holding his hands to the sides to keep the thrashing to a minimum as the tangled mass of wires, intravenous lines, blood and asphalt envelop his body that is not built to be hit by a van. This kid is only slightly older than my oldest. This could be him on this cot, with God-knows-what happening in the skull at this very moment. C’mon, kid. I need you to pull through this. I don’t know you, I don’t know your family nor your situation. Maybe you’re a bully, maybe you steal from little old ladies. That’s not the point. You’re young. You’re not some strung out tweaker that we’ve run on a thousand times, driven to kill yourself in a meth-fueled frenzy. You’re ten, for fuck’s sake. My heart won’t take this lightly.

And he’s out again. Something’s going on in that head, there’s damage, and I don’t know what it is. I’m shouting his name out now. C’mon kid. Open that eye again, let me see your eyes. A muffled moan, and he cracks it open. He hears me. He screams again. Ok, keep screaming, keep thrashing, I’ve got you. Grab my hand, tear the thing off for all I care at this point. You’re someone’s kid, you’re my kid, you’re our kid, even if for only a couple of minutes. You need to hang on, little man. I need you to.

Eventually, we get to the hospital. Screaming as we wheeled him into a waiting ER room, I finally let go of that hand, let go of the oxygen mask. A team of seemingly 30 people were waiting in there to take over, the true professionals. I gotta let you go here. His eye looks at me one more time, and he doesn’t break contact. We did what we could, kiddo. Tomorrow morning, I’ll leave this firehouse and hurry home, and crush my kids in a hug, never wanting to let go. Emotionally drained and taxed from the adrenaline surge, we head out of the room to wait for a ride back to the station, strangers in dirty bunker gear, intruding on a world of hospital scrubs and salvation. I’ll learn later on that the boys on the Engine worked a heart attack victim who didn’t make it. We’ll fight some fire at a car crushing plant, go to a house fire that doesn’t amount to much. But all day long, I’ll think of you. When I see those eyes in my mind, you’re right there. And I’m right there with you. I hope you pull through kid, cause I’m pulling for you. We all are.

C’mon, kid.