Station 35 Fireman Dinner

I’ve been thinking a lot this holiday season about the Walnut Cove’s Station 35. It probably started about the time Mom invited me to join her at the fireman appreciation dinner but intensified when I saw pictures of the older members of my dad’s generation. Talking to her afterwards I learned there was a call overlapping the event and the younger guys were off attending to it.

As a young man, the volunteer fire station was a big part of my life. You see I never served as a volunteer, but my dad was an active member on the fire and rescue squad while my mom contributed through the ladies’ auxiliary that coordinated events and fundraisers. I was a childhood outside observer through most of my adolescence. My younger brother and I spent many hours hanging out in the station kitchen, climbing on trucks parked in the bays during weekly meetings, attending fund raiser events, and even riding on the trucks during parades.

I learned a lot. I saw how dedicated my parents were in doing something for more than themselves. I saw many like-minded men and women doing the same with their families. While observing these calm times was common, one thing Dad never did was talk about his calls. He may have shared some details with Mom, but my brother and I were always sheltered to the dangers. However, on one occasion my brother and I were included.

On a Saturday sometime in the 80’s, Dad had taken my brother and myself out to lunch. The call came for a brush fire about the time we were finishing up. Mom wasn’t available and Dad needed to respond so he decided we could ride along if we stayed in his truck. I don’t know exactly how old we were, but I was mature kid and didn’t have an issue with watching my younger brother. So off we went.

Before long we were on countryside roads, taking short cuts over plowed up fields, and listening to planning and logistics over the radio while watching Dad work through all the gears on that old manual transmission. It was exciting, something I had never experienced to that point in my life. The scary part came later.

You see, Dad had to get out of the truck at some point. I always felt safe around him. He was just that kind of guy, a good mix of strength and caring. But that day he was moving for a reason and would have to physically join the effort. So, once we reached a little clearing off and old logging road deep in the woods he gave me some last-minute instructions, left the radio on, and headed off on foot. Things got quiet. We were parked among a few other recognizable trucks but there were no people around. It was just tall pines, the old logging road, and the radio chatter.

I don’t know how much time passed but it had to have been approaching an hour and a stranger showed up running to the truck. I was a little taken back since I was familiar with most of the firemen at the time. He came to the door and said, “The fire turned and your dad sent me to move you to a safer location.” I unlocked the door and he jumped in, driving us to a couple miles away where other responders were pooling. He said bye and quickly jumped out, running off on foot to rejoin the effort. Later Dad found us and made sure we were alright before getting us back to Mom.

This memory has been in my mind for years. Not because I know what it’s like to put on a fire suit and exhaust myself both physically and mentally but because I saw a little bit of danger. More importantly I saw my dad (and men like him) doing the hard work to keep me and people like me from that danger. I learned then to recognize and appreciate that type of dedication to shield others without the need to be seen, and those people with whom I spent so much time sharing spaces so many years ago.

Seeing those old faces in the holiday party pictures briefly gave me a sense of being a kid again. I am proud of them and the generations of men and women that have continued the work. I hope the holiday dinner attendees had a good time and those on the conflicting call were saved a plate for later.