Keep a Theme Song in your Heart

I have been asked often to go places and do things that scare the hell out of me.  I have found it important to have a good theme song playing in my heart when I am frightened while dealing with some of the stuff I have seen on the firefighting / rescue side of my life.

 

I think I will use this song the next time I'm not waiting.

Alone in Alaska Tests a Man's Mettle

Many of you who are following along with my blog are probably wondering...  billy blaze, who did you get that natural poetry writing talent from.

Ka'mya these poems were written by your great - great grandpa Buster. 

The above hand written poem from grandpa Buster proves one thing for sure.  Bitter cold and loneliness can drive a grown man to write some crazy stuff.  I'm still trying to figure out what drives me to write about the crazy things I drivel about.

My own scribblings would probably resemble this if it were not for the magical world of spell checker and the computer.  I was about ten when Grandpa Buster passed away.  My memories of grandpa were cut short by his early death but I remember him as being a very hard worker.  I think he would be very satisfied to know all the guests that he has hosted on the "home place" or as we call it now Beaver Hollow, appreciate his hard work attaining such a restful place for them to enjoy these many years.  What a thrill it would be to have him tell some of his tales around a campfire at the Hollow.

The Fort Lives On

I have always dreamed of myself as being a bit of an adventurer.  I have climbed to the top of several mountain peaks through the years, hiked many miles over backwoods trails, simply stomped out through the brush from point A to point B when I worked for the Forest Service and bicycled thousands of miles all over Oregon.  I too have always been intrigued with the great expedition Lewis and Clark made across western America in the early 1800's.  Since I had never visited the far northwest corner of Oregon, where the mighty Columbia River surges into the Pacific Ocean I thought this writers weekend / mini vacation would give Larrieann and I an opportunity to see some of the country that our brave early explorers visited over two hundred and five years ago. 

On a worn piece of elk hide I ogled the rough drawn fort that Clark left instructions for his troops to build while he was away studying and mapping the northern Oregon coast line.  I had to giggle to myself because it resembled the simple drawing I had drawn just before starting the grand kids tree house last spring.  Some statistics you may not know about:  Cost for the Lewis and Clark expedition, $2,500.  Cost for the grand kids tree house, $2,500.  The site where the original fort was built in 1805 was later logged and turned into a potato growing field.  The few rotting logs left from the original fort site were burned by the farmer to make way for a bigger field.  The land where the fort used to sit was farmed for almost fifty years before the Historical Society bought the land from the farmer and reconstructed the old fort using this original map for details.  The reconstructed Fort Clatsop accidentally burned down in 2005 after a candle making demonstration went awry.  The third Fort Clatsop we visited this weekend is surrounded by a massive forest with no indication that a potato growing field had ever been present.

Writers weekend statistics; only 2% of all the books written are ever published.  I did take a third place in the poem writing portion of the conference. 

Traveling north to a writers weekend at Ocean Park.

It was a journey into the land of Lewis and Clark.

Knowing before hand the new scribes would have a religious flavor.

Which was definitely a topic I did not want to savor.

I gleaned that publishing a profitable book was a myth.

Which was a thought I did not want to be left with.

Can you believe I took third place for that whopper.  Wait till you see my sique.

So you think you are a writer?

Many of you who have been following my blog these last several months know I have been toying with the idea of writing a book about my adventures during the thirty years I have served in the fire department.  I have gotten pretty good reviews from my friends and family who are traveling along with me so I thought I would take it to the next level.

I decided to attend a writers conference held at Ocean Beach in Washington State this last weekend.  {Note to self: If a conference is held at a church camp it probably will be attended heavily by religious people.} I thought I'll go find out what some real writers and editors think about my scribblings.  As you can see by all the corrections and suggestions made by one gentlemen on a single page of one of my stories, he quickly stops, puts down his pen and says "I think you are more of a story teller then a writer".  Laughing out loud to myself, I think whew!  A story teller can wave his arms around in the air, make funny faces and shout when a story needs emphasis.  No more worrying about if I got my adjectives in the right place, if the spelling is correct or if I've used the same word too many times.  What a relief, a Story Teller I will be.  Secrectly I enjoy telling tall tales while warming ourselves around a campfire at Beaver Hollow more then I like writing anyways.

The weekend was not a total loss by any means though, I did win the "Best Opening Line" contest while attending.  The instructions for the twenty five attending scribes was to write the worst opening line you could think of...  "The bright red light on the cardiac machine blares a flat line as your eyes meet the infant mothers and you both know a miracle did not occur here tonight".  I remember that night clearly still.  It was one of the worst things I ever had happen to me.  Writers are a strange breed though.  What amounts to one of the worst things to ever happen to me, they see it differently.  They say the aforementioned sentence was the best opening line because it draws a new reader into the book where they would want to read more about the story... 

After that terrible night long ago, I didn't want to know anymore about the story, I just wanted to go home and cry.

Not all Ragu Sauces Taste the Same

From the exclusively decorated office of billy blaze the lies continue to keep coming.  We had to have a computer doctor come in and increase our computers storage and memory banks.  Larrieann has a gazillion pictures of our grand kids stored on the poor thing and I have a fair amount of my own memorabilia stored on it too.  Boy she is sure fast now, but the new components haven't helped me type or think any faster...


Our local newspaper had this photo printed in it the other night and it reminded me of the time we got called to a similar scene down by the California border one time.  Highway 199 narrows and becomes quite curvy just before it dips into the "Happy Cows State".  I never will forget tearing around one of the tight corners responding to the reported car accident when we almost were involved in another.  Crashed right in the middle of the main highway a conversion van was standing on it's own front grill like some kind of unnatural monument.  I swear the tires were still spinning around when we arrived.  We skidded to a sideways stop in our extrication rig and all jumped out to go see if any body was actually still in this darn phenomena.  Sure enough there were two older people still trapped inside, but nobody was going to be able to help them until we stabilized this fireman's death trap some how.  After warning the fire engine responding from station #3 that we were all marooned in the middle of the highway they managed to creep around the sharp corner without incident.  Since this was Station three's engine I didn't mind if it ended up with another scratch on it.  I had their old engine staged (parked) as close to the unusually crashed van as we could without toppling it over.  After carefully lashing the vertical standing van to the side of the heavy fire engine with the thick tow straps we carried on board, we finally were able to get a peek inside at the carnage.  These poor folks literally had everything they were carrying in their van fall on top them, including their own kitchen sink.  Later we found out our older couple had just stopped at a supermarket a few miles down the road and had stocked up on supplies before their big trek north into Oregon.  I guess they figured Oregon didn't have any food by the amount of supplies they had loaded on board.  Bad move on their part, it had all now tumbled and cascaded over them. 

After "popping the top" (fireman jargon for riping the top out of a vehicle using an air chisel) off this now defunct van.  When using an air chisel to extricate a patient it is very very noisy.  It is hard to convince your trapped patients that you are really there to help free them when the noise from this device starts roaring through tough metal.  The elderly lady was removed from the wreck pretty quickly but the gentlemen was a different story.  He was firmly trapped by the steering wheel and his feet were entangled in the brake pedal.  I'm on my belly in the middle of the highway trying to crawl inside through the smashed drivers door window,  digging through the grocery items, trying to get close enough to see what my male victim injuries actually were.  Every time I would move a can of corn away from his head, three cans of peas would fall onto my poor old gentleman's with a dull thud, thud, thud.  Glancing from inside the van, looking around the accident scene it was now beginning to look like a grocery stores shelves had been emptied onto the highway.  I became quite concerned when I finally clawed through the food stuffs and found red liquid coming from my old mans ear canal.  Fearing he had suffered a serious head trauma I immediately pushed myself inside even farther so I could get a closer look.  Shining my flashlight towards his massively oozing wound... what is that I see mixed in that red goo oozing from his head?


Taking my gloved finger I swipe some of the gruel from his ear and slowly brought it to my nose. With a audible sigh of relief from me, all it was was Ragu Sauce with fresh onion favoring.   The red tomato paste had exploded on impact and drained through the grub into his ear.  I didn't want spaghetti for dinner for a few weeks after that unusual call.

Don't use Smoke Bombs

...of course there was the year we decided to build a small house on Lauren's loyal float building trailer.  We planned on stashing a lovely family of four inside the home and right in front of the judges stand we would stage a heroic rescue...

...with Larrieann driving the, she was the only one who could figure out how to start the tractor that year, I was busy doing something else, tractor pulling the float trailer she crept ahead of the ensuing fire engine as we neared the judges booth set up on the Sentry Markets parking lot.  Of course any good rescue needed to have some wispy smoke involved in it to make the event look more realistic.  At just the precise moment our adult occupants hidden inside our humble abode mounted on our trailer would light the smoke grenades we had acquired from the National Guard. (Note to self:  Don't ever use that kind of smoking devil device again).

The fire fighters following in the engine would see the quaint SMOKEY signal wafting from the building prop down the street and respond in hot (code three with red lights and sirens blazing).  Lurching to a stop in the middle of Highway 199, the air brakes on the engine would set with a loud SWOOSH,  we would pull an attack line off the engine and charge it to life, while two more firefighters donned breathing apparatus, we would enter our play structure and pull our innocent family to safety.   The "Dramatic Rescue" would only take a couple minutes, wooing the dignitary parade judges into awarding I.V. Fire with another years Grand Marshall's Trophy.

Everything went pretty much as to planned until we lite the smoke grenades off.  As the putrid smoke wafted from our simple structure our role players inside the building began coughing in realistic enough sounding agony.  Their uncontrollable gaging could be heard as far as the judges stand located some distance away and the other guests lining the parade route began abandoning their viewing points as to escape the rank smelling smoke bomb fumes.  By the time we reached our delirious actors trapped inside we were able to up the excitement of our "big rescue event" by running back to the fire truck and bringing an oxygen cylinder so we could slap some O2 (oxygen) on our truly expiring actors.

I must admit after the parade was over I felt kind of bad because we made our captain, Mike Melton's, two cute little kid actors cry because the smokey conditions became so realistic.  Within an hour or so our fire victims had recovered almost fully but I don't believe we won the trophy for that years Labor Day Parade demonstration.   Every year afterwards my firefighter gang was a bit more apprehensive when I was developing the next years new parade theme for some reason.

...but the after hours Activites were the Best

"Rogue" commented the other day on my blog, " I love these stories Bill. You have so many colorful experiences to share about the good old days. We had fun, worked hard, laughed and cried"...

... volunteer fire departments scattered across our country depend almost entirely on their local communities unwavering support for them to even exist.  Those big red fire trucks don't come cheap, neither do all the life saving tools stored inside them.  Without community members pooling their money together no department could afford to continue operating.  Our little fire department perched out in the Illinois Valley was no exception.  The volunteer firefighters were constantly looking for ways to keep our fire department in the public eye through community outreach programs.  Our favorite event to participate in each year was the infamous Lions Labor Day Celebration held at Jubilee Park towards the end of each hot summer time...

...of course we manned our own quaint little I.V. Firefighters fund raising snack bar located along the right field fence line snuggled in close to the softball field where many games were cheered on during the festivities.  We always were able to raise a few hundred bucks over the three day weekend that we normally put towards some special project we had going on in the fire department at the time.   Weather it be for some newer rescue gear we wanted that the fire departments main budget couldn't afford, or adding the money towards another set of "Jaws" we needed for our growing community or even as simple as new ball caps with the I.V. Fire logo printed on them for the volunteers to wear proudly around town.  Nooo, the snack bar was not what we all anxiously awaited for all year long, it was the annual Labor Day Parade that marched it's way through downtown Cave Junction that we yearned for.  We never joined the parade route to just be in the parade itself we signed the parade entry form so we could win the Grand Marshall's Trophy every year.  It was quite prestigious to bring that big trophy back to the main fire station and place it along side all our other dusty pasted victories. Every year it took a more outlandish idea for this years upcoming float because all the other community groups in town were vying for our winning trophy also...

...like the time we decided to extricate (tear apart) a car with our "Jaws of Life" while we traveled down thou the parade route rolling through the middle of town.  We wanted our crashed vehicle to look realistic when it was mounted on the oversized trailer bed (16 feet wide) we had built for this years exciting demonstration.  "Moon" Ewing, who's day time job was working for the local cement redimix company. He drove their big front end loader up to my mom's, located across the street from our station, where our floats often times were assembled in secrecy behind the old shop out behind her house.  We chained the beat-up old car into the bucket of the loader with the feeble front grill dangling out the front of the enormous loader bucket.  Our evil plan was to roar out through the field in the gravel yards loader and smash into a huge tree stump located along the edge of the forest, giving us that real-life look smashed into the front of our car after it had been involved in a horrible crash.  Ten or fifteen of us firefighters hunkered down as "Moon"  tore out through the field in the loader...

... SMAAASH, after the dust sort of starts clearing we see Will holding his nose with both his hands and see the smear mark left from his nose smashing into the loaders thick front window, but the dent left on the front of the car was perfect.  We sawed the stump off and placed it along with our car prop on the trailers bed. By now the swelling was beginning to show on Will's nose and I think someone ran into mom's house real quick for some emergency ice.  We added a bunch of brush strategically on the float for that realistic "we left the road" look.  The next dilemma we encountered was when moving the float to where the procession route began... getting out my mom's driveway.  We had built the darn float so wide we couldn't fit between her driveway and a power pole blocking our only escape route.  Kind of like the guy who builds a boat in his own basement then can't figure out how to get it out of there. We didn't have time to go get the loader again to rip the power pole out of the ground, plus the PP&L guys would sort of frown on us doing that anyways.  Finally we "MacGyvered" a rickety bridge across the ditch along the State Highway and we were on the way down the roadway leading into town, taking up THE WHOLE HIGHWAY.  With our emergency lights flashing from our engines we escorted our monstrosity to the parade staging area. 


With cars being forced almost entirely off the road by this years winning behemoth the oncoming vehicles occupants simply waved at us and hooted encouragements towards us as we passed by.  They had become accustomed to their local firemen's outlandish behaviors by now.

Sitting Pretty

The little volunteer fire department that I was a member of was like most other volunteer departments scattered across America.  They all are under staffed by a shrinking number of  devoted community members willing to donate their personal time for countless hours of training while still responding to real emergency calls.  In today's world 80% of the incidents firefighters respond too have no fire involvement in them at all, because they are actually medical calls.  In my personal opinion most people abuse the communities emergency medical responders today.  Let's say, John gets a "bad cough", with today's thinking he will call 911 so they can send him help, which in turn activates an ambulance service, a fire engine and when they are available a police officer in many cases, screaming code three (red lights a siren) to their location which is often not very well marked with an address sign.  The general citizenry has lost their ability to help resolve their own problems that they have most often gotten themselves into.  Today there is no such saying as "Buck-up Little Camper" or "I've  have been hurt worse eating chicken", like our parents told us when we were growing up.  I liked the old fire department mentality better, when we only responded to FIRES, CPR in progress, and my favorite task, prying people out of  CAR CRASHES.  I never had a hankering to grow up being an "ambulance chaser" I wanted to be a fireman...

Russo sends me a comment earlier today,  there was a roll-over MVA (Motor Vehicle Accident) one night out on the nasty turn on Lakeshore Drive. I was coming back from the lake with my girlfriend when we rounded the corner an came upon the accident. I called for help, then crawled part way into the car window to hold the lady's neck, a position I had to hold until help arrived. so there I was laying prone on the ground half in and half out of the car window (it was upside-down) when Bill arrived with the jaws crew...

My extrication crew arrives on scene and the duty officer instructs us to tear the door off the car so we can gain access to the badly injured lady still trapped inside the vehicle.  I noticed the dead body laying partly inside the car with his legs dangling precariously out the car window.  Normally when someone had succumb due to their injuries we left them lay and we worked around them.  It helped law enforcement with the investigation into the car wreck later on.  This car was up-side down over a steep embankment, hung-up on a Maple tree leaning over the swiftly moving Deer Creek.  I managed to get the Jaws down to the car and by straddling the dead guy I was able to begin tearing the car door away.  I'd never set on a dead guy before but it was a lot more comfortable then crawling around in the rocks like normal.  I had been working on that crushed door with the Jaws of Life for a couple of minutes trying to get it to pop off it's hinges.  Just then the dead guy I was setting on moves and mumbles "God Damn-it Blaze that hurts".  Scared the CRAP out of me. I almost peed my pants. 

Together we managed to finally get the young lady free and headed off towards the hospital.  I then went off to clean my drawers.

0 for 32

I attended my annual CPR continuing ed training (EMT recert stuff) a couple weeks ago.  I am amazed at the different CPR protocol changes that have been made through all the years I have been an Emergency Medical Technician.  I have to giggle at the new fire kids of today for they have no idea what mouth to mouth CPR was really like in the old days...

When my kids were still little I went through a churchy stint in life.  Micheal and Erica both went to private church school till they started going to public middle school later on.  We all went to Sunday School as a "Family", I even helped teach a little kid Sunday School Class, seems like in another life to me now.  I still know all the words and hand gestures to "The Devil is a Sly Old Fox", on a slow night I'll teach them to you... anyway I digress.  We get this medical call early one evening about dinner time, we respond to the scene at this older couples home.  It was an old guy that went to the same church I attended back then, he was down and not breathing with no pulse.  This was way before we had the cute little pocket mask protectors, hell this was before AID's was even invented yet. We went to banging on his chest and yep I knelt down and put my lips on his.  Mark Russo was doing the chest compressions and in between every fifth compression I watched this old guys chest rise as I blew my life giving air into his lungs.  Everything was proceeding along as expected, unless you are the dead guy getting your chest caved in by the compressions and another mans lips are on yours.  As the minutes slipped away I am still leaning low over our very dead dude, so I can methodically deliver my life giving breaths,  ...one thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five, squeeze nose shut, lock lips, just then he pukes in my mouth.  His last dinner had just been launched into my mouth and it had ejected out my own nose because I had such a good lip lock on this old codger.  Lurching away with his chicken noodles still hanging out my nose.  Mark stares at me in horror and asks "you OK?"  As I dart for the front porch.  Firefighters are trained not to throw-up on the carpeting.  I can't stand the smell of chicken noodle soup even to this day without almost getting sick to my stomach again.

My CPR save record was pretty dismal until a few years ago.  I think it stood at something like 0 for 32 before I finally got a save in.  Life is crazy though, she suffered from terminal cancer.  She didn't have any DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) orders so we had to begin CPR on her.  She lived for awhile longer with a very sore chest before she died, again.

I had to do CPR on a infant one time that was being baby sit by my neighbors next door.  They found the baby smurfy blue in bed early one evening, knew I was "the fireman", rushed over to my house and asked me for a miracle.  I wasn't able to deliver.  Possibly one of the most heart wrenching nights in my life.  Doc's later on figured the baby had died from that mysterious phenomena called "crib death".  It didn't make me feel any better having them put a name on it for me.

These damn fire kids today with all their "Edison Medicine".  Supplied with their personal pocket masks, Latex gloves, power pads, wires, blinking lights on sleek looking machines that spit out graphs and tell them when to light their patient up.  I have often wondered if I had all these toys in the old days if could I have made that miracle happen that awful evening?

I am One of Those He Released onto the Planet

My mom sent me a message a few days ago...  I've reminded Mike several times to write or send you some reminders for stories. Guess you'll have to write one yourself about him, naming him or something dumb about him, or even better, embarrassing. Hummmm, well we won't do embarrassing or dumb because I know he has far more material on me then I have about him...

Stories about Captain Mike Melton.  I have found it strange looking back into my way back memory bank thinking about Mike.  I don't remember him having a nickname posted on the back of his helmet, like so many of us did.  It simply stated MELTON on the brim of his helmet.  Though I have seen those bold letters badly melted with drips of hot tar splattered across them many times after fighting the big one together.  I recall a Burn to Learn he was instructing, where he got her burning inside with a little bit too much zest and stumbled out of the blaze with his white helmet melted and his turn-out coat missing a couple layers of protection on it.  He sort of runs out of the training structure with his shoulders still smoldering and in a matter of fact voice yells back to the new recruits waiting to enter with thier hose line "Well go put that Som-bitch out".  Mike always lead the most realistic fire trainings.

If I were tasked with picking one individual person that most influenced the way I have fought fire aggressively all these years it would have to be Mike.  Mike was the firefighter on the hose line with me on my first structure fire.  To this very day, every time I fight a house fire I can still feel his fingers latched onto the back of my turn-out coat and his forearm pressing into the middle of my shoulders.  Yelling to me over my shoulder "Go Get Her Blaze, pointing, Knock that Down Over There, Damn-it don't let it get behind you, GO, GO, GO.  I don't know if I have to this day ever fought another fire that was hotter.  I literally had to put the flames out directly in front and swooshing around me or parish from the blistering heat he was pushing me into that night.  It was so translucently hot that you could literally look through the heat seeing the chain saw and tools sitting on the back work bench, spying the cans of gas stored precariously under the bench.  And Hell No we weren't wearing any B.A's, we were just going for it, or at least Mike was, I was just trying to stay alive.



I know I have fought many dozens of fires with Mike circling around outside the building but I don't remember actually fighting too many with him beside me.  Mike was our leader, he was on the perimeter directing the whole gang.  I was simply one of his firefighters inside dealing destruction to the beast.  Mike was the "spear chuck-er" and I was the tip of one of his spears.  Where he threw me is where I went and I didn't come back out till we got the job done.


Mike writes to my mom... "Having been that cocky kid gives me great insight as I've raised many more over the years and set them loose on the planet. Looking forward to catching up with Billy Blaze at our reunion this year."  To which I reply, Amen!

Don't Ever Bet Against Me...

...having all our chores done while pulling a shift on this wet Saturday has given me a bit more time to write this afternoon.  The stories are fire related so it is sort of like I'm doing fire related things around the station isn't it?  With my mom thinking I had backed the fire truck out that old muddy road in my last story it reminded me of another...

...we had been called to a fairly significant garage fire located on the base of Eight Dollar Mountain.  It too had a pretty nasty road leading into it, in fact it was quite steep for some distance at the beginning.  The road then flattened once you managed to get over the steep part but had soft potholes littering it with the house still nearly a half mile farther back in the woods.  People in Southern Oregon really like to live off the beaten path sometimes.  I had responded in the "first in" engine, again, barely beating the gang from our rival Station #2 located in Selma.  Yes, amazingly there are constant rivalries amongst fire stations within even the same fire departments.  I will try and share some of those stories in the near future.  By keeping the throttle on my engine pressed almost through the floor boards I was barely able to sneak over the steep section of driveway finally making it back into the fire scene.  Our engine only carried 1200 gallons of the "Wet Stuff we put on the Red Stuff" and it goes pretty fast when you're trying to control an inferno.  We depend heavily on the water tenders arriving in short order, they carried the big loads of water (3000 gallons plus) and plug into the back of the engine and supply us with the knock-out punch of water.

It takes some real tenacity to drive one of these heavy rigs when you know what your doing let alone drive one when you are a new rookie.  For some reason we always stuck the new drivers on the tenders too?  So here I am about ready to run out of water in my engine, just as my fire radio squawks "8942 to Command, I can't make it up the driveway it is too steep, I don't have enough gears to make it".  That was not the radio traffic I wanted to hear because we still had some dragon left in this fire.  I recognized the voice on the other end of the radio traffic and knew he was a new driver.  Figuring I could do anything in those days I had someone drive me back down to where the tender was located at the bottom of the hill where I found the driver nervously yearning to get to the blaze.  I told him, "If he couldn't drive that rig up that little mole hill he had no business even driving that truck in the first place".  I learned that harsh technique from Dixon Davis.  No not really mom. 

I said let me give her a try, knowing I made it over the top in the fire engine, I figured I could do it again in the tender.   I backed down the driveway a ways so I could get a good run at that steep hill.  I threw her into gear and began shifting through the gears trying to gain some speed.  Making it only half way up that darn hill I slowly backed farther down the driveway so I could really get some momentum up for this final try.  The engine in the heavy water laden tender was roaring as I passed the first driver cowering next to the driveway by now.  Almost to the top... almost over, damn just not enough power to drive it over the top.  Slowly I back down the mountain in disgust realizing even I couldn't get that precious water to the blaze.  In that moment of disappointment I remembered seeing my grandpa Buster back up some hill in his beat-up old Caterpillar that was too steep for him to climb going forward.

Knowing vehicles are lower geared when traveling in reverse I took the tender and turned it around in a wide spot in the road below.  In reverse I made it easily up and over that steep spot in the driveway but I still had to back the half mile down this narrow driveway into the fire.  I was simply amazed when I later found out that the fire guys still trying to fight the fire without any water by now were betting I wouldn't make it to the fire in that water tender either.  I scored a lot of  pay back Dr.Pepper off that adventure.  Betting against me, humph...

Mud Can be Fun Sometimes

My mom is now helping spur old stories back into my old head...    

Not sure if you remember but thought about a story for you. Was not long after you got into IVFD, was a Thanksgiving or Xmas and you drove #01 into a old Pole house fire off the road going into Forks Park. Up a narrow road, big mud hole, numerous big stumps and Dixon Davies got in your face about backing the truck out, not getting it stuck or scratching the fenders. As I remember you finally came home to reheated left over dinner, soaking wet but not from working the fire, but sweating blood backing the truck out. Mom


...you will have to climb into the way back machine with me for this adventure.  As mom stated this call occurred just a short time after I had joined the Illinois Valley Volunteer Fire Department some thirty years ago.  We didn't have the extensive drivers training programs for new engine operators like we have for today's new fire recruits.  No, no it was almost like if you had a pulse you could drive the big fire engine screaming down the road going code three (lights and siren) to an alarm.  How do you think we recruited new volunteer firefighters?  Yep, we promised the new souls that they too could drive a big shiny fire engine if they came an joined our motley firefighting crew.  Again I'm not sure how we didn't kill more firefighters or pedestrians in the old days by awkwardly doing things the way we did back then.  Wearing no breathing apparatus when it was so smoky in the house you couldn't see your own hand in front of your face.  Getting dressed into our turn-out gear while standing on the tailboard of the engine as it responded quickly to the next big event (Hell it's deemed too dangerous for firefighters to even ride the tailboard today let alone dress themselves while riding on it).  Or letting new people drive really fast down the highway while talking on the fire radio, with the siren and horn blaring in the background. And they say just chatting on a cell phone while driving is dangerous today?

...it was only my second or third time driving the engine to a actual structure fire so I was still very nervous that I was going to screw-up.  During trainings we had been told over and over by Dixon that if the engine didn't get to the scene safely we could never help save any ones life or their belongings.   He had really scared this point home with me during our weekly Tuesday night trainings.  It had been raining for several days before as I headed up the nicely graveled driveway leading to where a plume of dark smoke was billowing over the tree tops.  The solidly graveled driveway quickly changed though as I could begin to see the flames coming from the burning home through the thick forest.  Soon the road narrowed even more with deep mud holes in it, filled with two feet of water, coming as high as the running boards on the truck.  I was afraid of driving further down the rough road for fear of getting stuck in the middle of it but also afraid of not getting to the house on fire and letting the peoples things burn up because this "newbie" couldn't get the engine there.  So I gritted my teeth, told my passenger to pull the mirror on his side of the engine in and I went for it.  With my foot nervously pressing hard on the throttle pedal, helping keep my momentum up so I could plow through those deep mud holes, I kept moving down the narrowing cow path slipping and sliding around the corners, leading to this ramshackle of a home but I finally made it to where the real work began...

...we already had the flames knocked down pretty well when the duty officer, Dixon , finally arrived on scene.  He walked straight over to me, not to congratulate me on the fine job I did getting the engine in there or about the great job we had done knocking the fire down so quickly.  He firmly grabbed my shoulder and swung me around and yelled "If you put one GOD DAMN scratch on my engine I'm going to KICK YOUR ASS".  Still very nervous from the harrowing adventure I was able to meekly squeak out, " I... I didn't Sir" as he stomped off to look for proof on his engine.  He didn't even care about what the fire was doing, just if I had scratched his darn engine.

Miraculously I hadn't scratched the engine but it was decided that Aaron Gates would drive the rig back out the driveway when the alarm was over because he had so much more experience driving big trucks.  The rest of us were sent back to the station in a different rig where we began cleaning the gear before the next alarm.  Quite some time later the engine finally arrived back at the station.  Aaron sheepishly climbed down out of the truck cab and came over and asked, Bill (I was still so new I didn't have a cool nickname like today, other than maybe, Horses Ass) "How'd you get that damn engine in there?". "Hell we had to cut some trees down next to the driveway so we could get the engine back out of there because the corners in the road were too tight for the engine to negotiate around them".  I just said "good driving skills I guess" and went about washing the red mud off of my new engine.

Send me some of the stories you remember from the old days and I can make myself look bigger and better in them then you may have remembered.

This Phone is Out of Order

...one Saturday afternoon I was lounging around my house when the fire alarm sounded on the Plectron (home fire radio).  My mom, who was the fire dispatcher back in those days, began to reveal the location and jest of our next fire adventure.  I soon realized the house that was on fire was just up the road slightly and across the highway from my own house.  In fact it was located between my house and the fire station a couple blocks farther up Caves Hwy.

Back in the day when I was much younger I didn't drive to the fire station when I responded to an alarm.  I ran to the fire station.  I found it was faster then getting in my van and starting it up, stopping at the busy highway and sometimes having to wait for a long line of traffic before I could proceed to the station.  In those days too, we had several volunteer firefighters who lived very close to our station so a sort of parking war would ensue when arriving at the station for a fire alarm.  You did not want to be a casual pedestrian walking near the fire station bay doors when we began to arrive, especially when it was cold and icy out.  Our motto was "every man for himself" when arriving at the station and "every man for each other" after we left together in the engine.

For many years I have been accused of even running to the fire station wearing just my underwear.  Which of coarse would have been ludicrous unless I thought I could have shaved off a few seconds getting to the station quicker.  Actually I had a white pair of running shorts I would wear to bed.  I could see where the unsuspecting motorist driving by seeing this nearly naked guy running up the roadside at all hours of the night and early mornings, to them it probably did look like I was wearing only underwear.  We firefighters had invented an ingenious plan.  We had purchased a garage door opener and installed it on the big bay door in front of our engine.  I would come sprinting up the road on a dead run in my white shorts, mom would look across the highway from her office, located directly across the street from the station, and punch the door opener and I would duck under the door as it was still retracting.  The sooner I got inside the building the safer I would be during "parking time".  This plan worked 99% of the time except for the few times mom got so busy with an incoming call where she would forget to hit the door opener button for us.  I suppose to the passing motorist it again probably did look like a nearly naked guy was jumping up and down in front of the fire station waving his arms frantically in only his underwear, yelling, "Open the Door, OPEN the DOOR", trying to get his moms attention from across the road.

On this particular fire I ran to the station which was sort of weird for me running by the house which was ON FIRE.  Not knowing if I should quickly stop and see what I could do to help or just keep on running and go get the engine.  It's the only fire I did a critique on as I ran by it. No other firefighters were arriving fast enough for me that day so I responded in the engine back down the road to my neighbors burning house by myself.  Pulling in and coming to a lurching stop in the driveway. The dragon was really getting prepared to break out by observing the thickness of the smoke pouring from under the eves.  Streching the limp hose line to the front door.  Running back to the engine to engage the pumper, I nervously looked out the driveway for reinforcements to arrive but there were none to be seen.  I throw the lever on the pump panel and pressurized water quickly brings the dragon killer to life.  I run back to the nozzle laying next to the front door steps, I pull the strap on my helmet tight, with one last glance back over my shoulder towards the road, damn, still nobody, my neighbors stuff is burning I surmise,  so I head inside alone.

I caught the ball of fire just as it was rolling across the ceiling tiles headed towards the living room.  Gathering the flames up in my powerful fog stream I stuff that cranky old dragon back into the kitchen from where he was trying to escape.  On one knee, staying low under the heat, by myself, suddenly to my left side I hear a phone ring.  It was hanging on the wall next to the dining room table. Back then everybody still had landline telephones, cell phones weren't even invented yet, at least not in our neck of the woods.  It starts ringing and ringing and ringing as I scoot over next to it.  I've got most of the fight knocked out of this dragon by now, as I reach to pick the phone receiver up.  I'm going to answer it in some clever voice with something official sounding like,  "this phone number is temporarily out of order, due to the HOUSE IS ON FIRE!!!".  The darn receiver had gotten so hot that it had melted to the phone body itself and I couldn't pull the two parts apart.  About then the phone stopped ringing so I went about finishing off this old beast for good.

After all the excitement had finally died down. I was back at the fire station helping clean our gear up with the rest of the guys whom had finally showed up to help.  I got to thinking, it probably wouldn't have been a very smart idea to answer that hot phone.  Placing the molten receiver against my fleshy ear.  This happened well before when we started wearing the protective fire hoods we use today.  Back then we still used our thin skinned ears you help us judge the heat trapped in a room we had a fire fight going on in. I probably instead would have blurted out saying something to the effect "this phone number, HOLY SHIT, my EAR is on FIRE!!! 

Over the River and through the Woods...

...over the river and through the snow to grandpa Lauren's house we did go.  Thank goodness we didn't have to travel in a sleigh,  because I most likely would have slipped into a coma if I had to make the trip in an open topped sledding vehicle enduring the frigid twenty degree weather.

After a quick hey how-ya-doing when we arrived our hosts quickly whisked us off on a beautiful snowshoeing adventure not far from Sunriver.  Fall River was our destination, a perfect spot for a afternoon's frolic on Larrieann's an my own dust laden snowshoes.  They had been stored away far to long in our downstairs closet.  All four of us headed out down the snowy trail with Lauren leading the way tramping down the two feet of snow ahead of us.  Elk tracks cris-crossed our path everywhere.  Fresh elk sign littered the icy snow. I couldn't convince Larriean into trying some of the naturally occurring yellow snow left behind the herd for some reason.  She murmured something about the time, many years ago, when I got her very young son Doug, to eat some moss from the north facing side of a Douglas Fir tree when we were on one of our hikes.  I told Doug the deer really like it and eat it but that's another story in it's self.

Fall River is one of those pristine rivers Oregon is known for.  It too simply boils out of from underground in several spots , much like the Rogue River does on the lower slopes of Crater Lakes, Mt. Mazama.  Three or four foot deep water so clear you could see salamanders crawling on the river bottom if they hadn't gone into hibernation already because of the bitterly cold water, a fly fisherman's paradise.  On the way driving back home Lauren and I made one of our normal quick rescues of some very unprepared kids stuck in the snow in their all wheel drive Subaru on a side road.

My favorite part of the weekend was getting to visit with Lauren and Ellen's children Randy and Rachael.  Even better then that was getting to meet again their own children. Rachael's,  Annika (aka Princess Toots alot) her words not mine, and Eli (Chunky Money).  Randy's, Casey, who walks, talks and dresses everything Indiana Jones.  I was advised not to get him one of those leather whips, and little Katie who inscribes to be Clara the Ballerina.  All four, really cute kids. It is so satisfying to see Rachael and Randy following in my foot steps already nicknaming their children like I have done too myself, billy blaze.  It was enjoyable watching grandpa Lauren interact with them all. 

Sometimes I actually think Lauren moved away from Southern Oregon so I would not be a poor influence on his grandchildren as they were growing up.  Teaching them how to catch hundreds of salamanders and put them into the preachers daughters tent.  Having them play sardines with me till all hours of night at Beaver Hollow and of coarse that moss eating thing too.  I can't wait till the next visit...

When You are Brothers, You are Never Alone

It's 3:30 in the morning and I can't sleep.  I'm like a anxious kid waiting to go on vacation to Disneyland.  Larrieann and I are headed to Sunriver in the morning to visit my good friend Lauren and his wife Ellen.  He moved away after retiring some years ago and frankly my life has not been the same without him around.  Rather then to continue tossing and turning in bed disturbing Larrieann I decided to slip to the computer and noticed this is my 100th blog entry.  After reading back through some of my fire stories I could see how the unwitting reader might begin to think that billy blaze must have been the only firefighter that poor little volunteer fire department had involved in it. 

I can assure you if you are having that thought about me it could be no further from the truth.  Yes, often times I have been the stone attached to the leading edge of an arrow shaft.  But we all know it takes a fine craftsmen (training officer) putting all the parts of an arrow together properly to make a wooden stick fly straight to it's target.  A fire training officer picks a straight stick and then begins slowly chipping a raw obsidian stone into a sharpened arrowhead.  After some effort he carefully attaches it to the slotted arrow shaft holding it in place with sinew and then he decorates the back of the shaft with feathers to make all the parts work together so it will fly straight.

I can fervently remember looking back across the swollen Illinois River during my big river rescue several years ago, seeing the five firefighters in a row poised sternly, leaning hard against my weight while not letting me get swept down the raging river.  I couldn't tell you who a single one of them was today but they were just as much apart of that rescue that day as any roll I played in it. 

Seeing pictures a couple days after a nighttime steep angle rescue we had several months ago I was amazed by what I saw.  Yes, I was one of the firefighters being dangled over the edge like live bait but the fifteen firefighters dug in on top, trying to find traction on that slick road were the real hero's in my mind that night.  They literally held all our lives over the cliff in their gloved hands.

I have got to fight fire with lots of folks over the years but there are a few guys and gals that stand out in my mind.  Darren, big hulk of a man, drives a semi hauling bread up and down I-5.  I loved having him on the attack line with me, especially when he was in front of me.  I can remember him nervously one time turning to me during one of our roaring house fires and mumbling through his breathing apparatus to me "shouldn't we put some more of this out before advancing?  It's getting hot up here", as I've got my hand firmly placed in the middle of his back pushing him towards the seat of the fire.  I was feeling no effect from the heat standing in the shadow of this man. 

Netta, I can't think of another paramedic I would rather work with when the "shit has hit the fan" at some accident scene.  Calm and decisive under pressure though she does cry too easily afterwards which makes it harder for me to keep my rough tuff side showing.

Rudy the best tender (water tanker) operator of all times.  Hearing crackle over my portable radio a stern message from fire command.  "Tell that Damn Guy from I.V. (Rudy operating the tender) to SLOW DOWN!."  We were fighting this huge mill fire over in Rogue River where all the water had to be shipped to us from town a mile away.  We were spraying thousands of gallons of water per minute and it all had to be hauled to us using a round robin of tenders converging from all over the surrounding counties. It wasn't a half hour later that the meek fire commanders voice came back over the air, "tell that guy from I.V. to pick it back up again".  Rudy was the only one out there that day keeping his dump tank full.  We laughed and laughed about that on the fire ground, as we could hear Rudy again shifting through the many gears on that big truck pulling everything that rig had from it that day.

The point being ninety nine times out of a hundred none of my fire adventures were ever accomplished alone.  The one thing I enjoy most about being a fireman is the camaraderie.  I know that if I were trapped in a burning building that firefighters from adjoining towns, counties, across Oregon and the west coast would keep coming to my aid till either they got me out or there was nothing left but a deep black smoldering hole.  And then they would still be standing there looking into the abyss just by chance that I would crawl back over the edge so they could help me stand and brush me off.  That's what being a fireman is all about the camaraderie towards each other and our communities.

I sure wish Larrieann would wake-up so we could leave, 6 o-clock in the morning...

Scars on the Heart

I have struggled for some time not knowing if this next story would be appropriate to write about due to it's raw graphic nature.  My mom wrote a few comments back, about people she knows who are following along with my blog. She writes, "...for some it reminds them of their own days in Emergency Service and to others it has opened there eyes to the behind the scene happenings and feelings that remain."  Please don't misjudge me, for my 30 year fire career has been spent at a very small volunteer department and now at a only slightly bigger paid department.  I have not witnessed or had to deal with the tragedy that my brothers had to endure when the towers fell in N.Y. or resolve the horror when some large aircraft smashes into the earth.  As a typical fireman's life goes I have lived a sheltered life.  Most guys in the big city fire departments, due to the large call volume they respond to have seen and been left with far deeper wounds then I carry.  I worry that I will not be able to convey the sadness and emotion to my readers that I felt that fateful night along another chunk of lonely country road, aptly named Lone Mountain Road.  Even as I sit here gathering my thoughts for the story I can feel my throat tightening, my lips pursing and moisture coming to my eyes...

...it was on a night not to different to the one we are having tonight.  A deeply dark, very foggy and near freezing night when I stepped onto the accident scene.  Seeing a mans limp body laying in the middle of the two lane road, not moving and a overturned ATV a few feet away would peak almost anyone's interest.  But what the hell is that screaming?  In my life I have never heard that kind of pain coming from any human being as my eyes scanned for the source of the blood curdling screaming coming from a short distance out in the woods.  Pointing to my comrades to address the mans injuries I went to find out what the hell was going on in the even darker forest. 

Shinning my Streamlite towards the noise and commotion at first I thought my eyes were seeing things or in this case not seeing things, as I fought through the thick underbrush creeping ever closer to the sound I was horrified to see...  I had always thought that some injuries would be so devastating to a body that the victim would just immediately die relieving them from the pain associated with such an injury, but life is not that way and sometimes death does not arrive easy.  The other thing that aids firemen when they arrive on a scene is we most often times don't know who is to blame for the carnage so we just go about helping to resolve it.  I am so thankful for not knowing all the details until later that cold night because I most likely would have crawled back through the brush an kicked the shit out of the "drunk" guy laying in the road.

...it was a horse screaming in unimaginable pain.  The drunk guy zooming up and down the road on an ATV, in the dark had spooked the horse from it's pasture and then proceeded to run into it, not seeing it in the thick fog and darkness.  The impact of the vehicle hitting the horse had torn the whole hind quarters from the animal at the hip.  I had never seen a wound so massive.  As the horse would fall an then fight to re-stand while missing it's rear leg.  All the time screaming in terror and pain.  I have dealt with hundreds of injured people and no matter how horrific their injuries are you can still console, comfort and offer them hope of recovery, plus the ambulance carries some pretty good drugs to help manage the pain, for people.  This animal needed to be put down and right now.

We couldn't find the horses owner, the Sheriff couldn't shoot it without the owners consent, the neighbors didn't want to take the responsibility of trying to shoot this animal that was thrashing through the woods and a large animal vet was an hour away.  With help I finally managed to get him lashed to a tree so he could stand on his three remaining legs easier.  He was wearing some kind of halter and I would hold onto it as he would physically lift me off the ground as I tried to comfort him.  I am no horse whisperer but he finally laid his head on my shoulder as he became so exhausted and just roared his discomfort through his nose.  I watched as the steam rose into the night air from his beautiful body and I at that moment I could feel him bond to me and my voice as he pressed harder on my shoulder with his massive head.   He knew that I was the only pain relief he was going to get that cold dark night.  Eventually someone did come and finally put him down as I snuck away behind the engine and cried.

The next time you are out enjoying a evening and maybe have had to many drinks I hope this story can wedge back into your mind possibly saving tragedy for yourself or other innocents.  Please remember too, next time your local fire department levy comes up for a vote, that these guys and gals often have to deal with the undealable.  We are often left with deep personal scars while serving in our own local community. SUPPORT THEM.  Whether they are from a paid or volunteer fire department.

Good Bye Old Friend

Well, I have come to the sad conclusion that it is time for my old, paint peeling, van to go away. The guys at the fire department tease me that it looks like a "Chester Molester" van.  The creepy old van, with the curtains drawn, that drives down your street and your mom warns you as children not to go around.  It is no longer a dependable ride for me since it quits running sporadically when I'm driving down the road. Coasting to a stop along the freeway is sometimes a hair raising adventure as you dodge thru traffic trying to reach the safe side of the road. So far the engine has always started right back up again.  But not being a mechanic myself and after spending several hundred dollars already at a couple different mechanic shops we have not been able to resolve the problem. I have had a window van during most of my adult life. All through the years the van has carried my kids and their many friends, along with all their necessities, to Beaver Hollow hundreds of times. My van has served as sort of my support vehicle through all these many past years adventures. Loaded down with my 2 fire gear bags, a swift water rescue bag, a search and rescue gear bag, change of fresh dry cloths bag, plus the different bikes I rode, snow shoes and other paraphernalia I have stored under the seats. Jammed under the seats was food, water, tents, and a first aid kit along with a spare tire and jack. When I got tired I could move enough stuff around to clear a place on the back bed for myself and my ever present dog and still have room to take a nap, semi comfortably. A few years ago when I still lived in Cave Junction I was setting at my house, minding my own business...


...11:00 at night I was slowly drifting off, watching some T.V. before bed when I noticed the brake lights on my van flicker on through the window. My van was always parked out front, facing towards the fire station, faithfully waiting for a fire call to come in. I get to the front porch just in time to see my van lurching out my gravel driveway throwing stones at me as it sped away. Now here I have this reputation of being this "ruthless Baxter" of a fireman and all I can verbalize during the commotion was "hey", "HEY" with my hand waving in the air as my van speeds out my own driveway and heads up Caves Highway. My Grandma would have been so disappointed in me if she knew that I didn't get a least one "You Dirty Bastard" in before the vehicle left my property. Immediately I jumped in my spare ride and headed out the driveway in hot pursuit. Or as hot a pursuit as an old Forest Service colored Ford Ranger could pursue. Back in the day the old van still had some zip left in her and she quickly left me in the dust.

Stolen, some "sumbitch" just stole my precious van with all her cargo in it. In my mind I was still living in the age where you didn't even lock your house. Hell, leaving my van keys on the floor next to the drivers seat was common place me. For when that quick get-away was needed when the emergency call came down. I had given up running the block to the fire station a few years earlier. When I noticed after trying to climb into the drivers seat of the fire engine I couldn't speak on the radio for a few minutes because I was too out of breath from the exertion. For a moment I paused there along the road looking up the highway urning for my van, somewhat bewildered, now who do you call when you have an EMERGENCY? ...  Oh yeah 911.

A few days go by, everybody in the valley that we knew was on the lookout for my stolen old van. Fire guys, telephone repairmen, my mom's friends, guys I worked with at the mill.  I think the cops were even aware it was gone too. Out of the blue I get this call from the Illinois Valley High School office. I say, Hello? "Bill why is your van parked out on our football field", the kind voice on the other end conveys. Ahhh? "My van is parked on your football field?  How long has it been there?" I manage to mutter.  Ohh two, maybe three days the receptionist replies. As I dart out of the house leaving the phone still dangling from the cord and head that way in my now trusty, nobody even wants to steal, Ford Ranger. Of coarse everything was missing from inside the old girl, fuel was all gone too, a few things were broken inside side but ahhh "I got you back baby"  My homeowners insurance covered most of my loses but I have never since owned as nice of a mountain bike (Interloc) as I lost that horrible night.

I’m going to miss not having the old girl around. $500 or the best offer. She has served me very well, at least to this point.  We'll see if the new travel trailer serves me as well.  I know it's harder to turn around for sure.

2011, Here Comes billy blaze

As the New Year of 2011 begins to settle over us I always tend to look back at my accomplishments and failures over the past year.  During these difficult financial times stretching across America I feel very fortunate to have a stable, secure feeling job, even if it is working with pooh.  I always grin when my little west coast granddaughter chides in that grandpa works at the stinky pooh plant and holds her nose with her fingers.

I'm not sure if it's because I'm getting older and slowing down a bit or if I'm getting lazy.  I never climbed to the top of any mountain peak this past summer which is a new non-adventure for me.  I always have climbed at least one per summer before.  Maybe it's because I was too darn busy building a tree house for the kids and enjoying when Erica and Van brought Ka'mya to visit Oregon.  In actuality it's probably the fact that my knees hurt so bad for a week after I climb one of those Cascade mountain peaks that it's getting harder to motivate myself too feel the pain (wuss).  I didn't go snowshoeing at Crater Lake either, which is really odd being that Crater Lake is my favorite place to tromp around summer or winter.  It's hard to get there in the winter time since we no longer have the 4 wheel drive jeep to dash through the snow in.

Larrieann and I did go out and purchase a travel trailer the day after we spent a very uncomfortable night sleeping in the bed of my pickup, with Styker laying on top of us, when we went on our annual waterfall weekend hike this last summer.  I have enjoyed pulling it over to the coast where we were amazed watching the bull elk fight during their rutting / mating season. Having the west coast grand kids join us on beach combing weekends has been an adventure.  I never thought a kid could carry so much sand on their little body before coming inside a trailer.  I had a great time when we invited my son and his family, Larrieann's son and his family to the coast for a weekend stay.  I think Larrieann and I are going to make that outing an annual event.  It was enjoyable watching all the kids play on the beach, flying kites and building sand castles together.  It was a interesting adventure breaking into Micheal's car when he locked his only set of keys in it too.  Normally I have a big red truck with the Jaws of Life in it, to help me when I'm braking into cars.  Using a crudely fashioned device made of wire marshmallow skewers to gain access is tough on a rip and tear fireman.

Failures;  I failed to go to fire training as often as I know I should have.  Because even after all the years in the fire service I still don't know it all and I know training is the key to performing well on scene.  I failed to go to Search and Rescue training as often as I should have.  Because I play fireman on the weekends when the SAR trainings are happening.  I failed to loose any weight or eat any better this past year.  Though I was able to loose some more hair from my balding head but not enough to show any weight lose.

The thing that plagued me most about this past year was not getting to spend more time with my east coast granddaughter, Ka'mya.  I got to spend almost a week with her when Erica came west but that wasn't enough time for me.  Here I am suppose to be this macho fireman that can look at any crushed and mangled car and immediately figure a way to free a trapped family from the carnage, and here I can't even figure out how to spend more time with my own granddaughter.  I can't move east because I'm way too rooted out west.  They can't move here because they have family there that would miss them if they moved west.  I can't afford to fly to Maryland much more then once a year so here I sit brooding.  I can't wait till Ka'mya is old enough to have her own tree house.  Because I know a fire guy who is going to travel east and build one just for her someday.

I have a few more stories to tell this coming year before I run out of them and have to start making up real lies.  I hope everyone who is following along on the mis-adventures of billy blaze has a safe and profitable new year.