Waiting for Fire Gives Time to Reflect

…and so as my e-mail address states the “waiting” part begins. Being that I’m pulling a shift this Fourth of July weekend at the fire department.   Much of your time is just that, waiting for what might happen next. Even after almost thirty years in the fire service I still feel a bit anxious when I’m on duty. While I have been quite lucky and had a fairly distinguished career in my fire-fighting hobby I still feel nervous I might freeze up for some reason on the next big call.



I started this blog to story-tell about some of the crazy things that have happened to me… and others, over my life time. I, too, am using this forum to help my east coast granddaughter, Ka’mya better know me and about things out west when she comes to the age where that sort of thing might be interesting to her. So many people like my own mom, spend time on the computer trying to find out about their ancestors past. While I still remember bits and pieces about my grandpa Buster, I really don’t know that much about him other then the few stories that still float around our family get-to-gethers. When my mom and I lived with her parents I remember when grandpa would come home from a hard days work of logging, mining, or construction. He would take his ever-present metal hard hat off his head when he came into the dining room. Throwing it off his head onto the worn wooden floor like a spinning top. Its aluminum rim would careen off the metal chair legs scattered around the dining table, bounce off the old foot pedaled sewing machine before it would finally come to a rest in the corner of the room somewhere. In a raised voice, grandma would yell from the kitchen, “God Damn it Buster” scolding him about all the noise he was making. I don’t care how many times grandpa repeated that ritual, it never got old for me.


In this day and age as I look back at my grandpa Busters image seared into my brain I would have to call him somewhat “crusty”. Not the kind of crusty like the bums that hang out at our traffic intersections begging for beer money today. But lets admit it grandpa was always dirty. The jobs he held down during his life were always the kind that left you filthy at the end of the day. I am proud to say I too inherited from him those same type jobs that at the end of the shift you can look back and say, “Hey look what we accomplished or built”. I sure know firefighting is a dirty sweaty sport. Working at a sewer plant isn’t much cleaner either, though we do refer to the pooh as “mud” rather then dirt.


Many of you may or may not know that my “real job”, the one that actually pays the bills is working for the City of Grants Pass at the Water Restoration Plant, or as Stacey calls it “the Pooh Plant”. Speaking of dirty jobs… not long after I went to work at the wastewater plant in Grants Pass my co-worker and I had to unclog one of the many pipes that run throughout the facility transporting sewage from one area to another. We shut off the flow of sewage and isolated the area we were going to be dismantling an elbow in the piping. The spot we had to make the split in the pipe was very difficult to squeeze into and a fair ways up in the air, in what is known as a pipe rack. Gathering up our tools we forced our way up into where we needed to be and carefully began loosening the bolts holding the elbow joints together. The last couple bolts you want to always take apart very carefully making sure there is no trapped pressure inside the line. If you don’t slowly relieve this built up pressure before hand you take the risk of being covered in “Mud”. We check for pressure, none escaped, giving each other the reassuring nod we pull the last couple bolts and lift the elbow away from the pipeline. We are both sitting there resting in our confined space for a few minutes, trying to figure out what the best way for us to proceed is going to be. When suddenly we hear a big whoosh and it was getting louder. Without enough time to crawl out of our predicament I knew we were about ready to get hit with raw sewage. The question was, how much and for how long. I braced myself in the entanglement of pipes so I couldn’t get blown out of them. Like we are trained when  fighting a fire and the flames flash over our heads. I lowered my head and shoulder towards the impending doom. You never can really brace yourself for being consumed by raw sewage, any more then you can prepare for the searing flames of a burning building. You just try and survive the situation. Within thirty seconds the worst of it was over as you begin to wonder where your partner is. Spitting aside the big chunks, I call out his name, but get no answer. Scrapping the goop from my face the best I can, so I can help locate my mate. Thinking the worst. I thought my co-worker had been blown from the pipe rack and was now lying seriously injured on the cement floor below. Through the misty sewage hue I can see my brave brother managed to stay in the pipe rack with me. He wears glasses and I now notice he has “mud” and debris stuffed between his glasses and both eyelids. Trying to keep the bad “ju-ju-bwan” (that’s shit in some foreign language) out of his mouth he doesn’t want to open his mouth to let me know his is in fact still ok. If you consider being spewed in raw sewage really ok. Over one of his ears hangs a colorful used latex rubber. Now I don’t care who you are or what your background is, that’s funny.


The backup crew arrives to lead us to safety, washing us down with cleaner water the best they can as they help us to the shower room on site. Throwing away your cloths you start the long process of showering off. With your hands on the shower wall like someone being frisked by a police officer you cry to yourself, “why me, why me” as the hot water begins to wash away the stain. Calling to Kevin in the next shower stall over, I ask if he’ll come scrub my back for me, still a dead silence from him… I yell over to him again. I think we got her unplugged. Where is Mike Rowe when you need him?