I’m standing in the side hallway of our church after the evening service when my friend Jared walks up to me and asks, without any preamble, if I’d be interested in joining the fire department with him.

I’m barely 18 years old, and it is almost 30 odd years ago now.

His request catches me by surprise; I have never considered such a thought up to this point in my life.

After a quick non thinking pause, I say, “Sure, what do we do next?”

He tells me we need to meet with the fire chief.  He knows we will be accepted because there aren’t enough personnel in the department as it is.

We meet the chief a few evenings later to go over things.

He’s an interesting type of guy; seems a little insecure.  Always clearing his throat and every little bit breaks into an overly done guffaw.

We sign a few forms that are rather meaningless and then we are escorted with great fanfare out to the equipment bay and shown around. 

The chief hops into the country truck and starts it up, kicking on the lights and revving it to a scream in a matter of seconds.  I wonder what such revs are doing to a cold start like that.  He shuts it down and shows us to the back where an antiquated 20 hp Kohler pump motor is mounted to the left side atop a large stand on platform.  On either side of the platform are hoses that can be manned by the person riding there.

He starts the pump motor, or, tries to.  It doesn’t start for some time, which is a habit we soon learn can be very frustrating.  With an embarrassed guffaw, the chief tinkers around with it and eventually gets it running.  I wonder, to myself, how the ramifications of this time lapse are to be explained to someone in a desperate situation.  I don’t think I can master the guffaw that seems to be the catch all by now, neither do I think it proper communication for such situations, although I am to see it used precisely as such very often.

Next, we are shown to the front platform where another hose, strung along the left side of the truck and draped across the top of the cab finally terminates on the platform.  There is railing across the front of the platform, but not on either side to facilitate a quick entry or exit, or, in some cases of very bumpy rides, an extreme hazard.

We are told the country truck carries around 300 gallons of water, and, we are told that water disappears alarmingly fast when all three hoses are being manned by hyperventilating, overly stoked firefighters. We are given sober and stern instructions about water conservation. 

It’s just five steps out from the truck into the dark night and a turn to the right.  He shows us the water tower, and, I see for the first time a round red iron plate affixed to a track where it can slide up and down.  The chief tells us this is the float indicator and explains how when the tank is completely full, the red plate will be at the bottom of the track, completely empty, at the top.  Again, we are given dutiful instruction of the possibility of sucking the tower dry, should a big event happen and both country and city truck are pumping at full capacity.

The tanker is next to the country truck.  The chief jumps up to start it.  All the equipment needs to be warmed up, he says.  But it doesn’t start.  The battery is dead.  We smile politely at the guffaw relegated in the tanker’s direction, and retire back to the old city office, now turned fire department meeting room, to discuss what comes next.