One Year, One Gross | Craig Malin

The messes I make are non-stop. First winter storm warning of the year arrived on Saturday. Knew it was heading our way the day before so I stuffed a Christmas tree sized somewhere between reasonable and ridiculous into the back of the Jeep and lugged it onto the back porch to keep the snow off it. You know how some people have those little tree scent things hanging on their rear-view mirrors? It’s way better to just make the back of your car into a forest, with several feet of tree hanging out the back. Fresh piney scent. No chemicals involved.

Or diesel scent, with chemicals involved, as the case may be. Upon Poynette arrival, someone asked if the Village could plow snow off the park paths in the winter. I said something like, “sure, I’ll do it”. So, I have. The Village bought a John Deere tractor and plow with some ARPA (Covid) funds from the Biden era. Heated cab and flashing amber lights. Not especially fast. Zero suspension. LOUD exhaust requiring ear protection. And this low-hanging part of the ceiling that I have banged my head into I do not know how many times when the plow catches an immovable object and everything instantly stops moving forward … except me.

Other than the sporadic kineticism of bashing into an overhead console Deere engineers did not completely think through, the plowing is wonderfully restive. Especially late at night or early morning. Steady hum (with ear protection) of the diesel. A small vessel of warmth, light and purpose moving through the cold darkness. Snowflakes reflecting off the flashing amber lights. The scrape of the blade. The continuous coordination of throttle, transmission, steering and miscellaneous knobs and levers.

Other than the slight pang of guilt that my volunteering to plow keeps someone else from being paid to do it, piloting the tractor through the snowscape is genuinely calming.

You also need to make peace with the little Deere tractor not being as preposterously manly as the stuff Public Works is operating. Fairly easy for me, because masculine object-centered masculinity seems more indicative of a need to mask insecurity than toughness. I can weld, if I have to. Open pickle jars too. So what if I weep at baseball Hall of Fame induction speechs? Doesn't make me weak.

Anyway ... making winter walks more inviting is simple, honest work. I am happy to do it with our spry little tractor, and even happier when I see friends and families and couples out for a stroll.

So, I was out plowing midday Saturday when one of the other messes I have gotten myself into reared its inconvenient head. Plowing the paths in Point Gardens when the fire pager goes off. Not surprisingly, an accident.

Not surprisingly, the chunk of mushy matter atop the spinal column bursts into calculation mode. Airspeed velocity of an unladen (European) swallow is 24 mph. No, that’s no help. Top speed of a John Deere 1025 tractor is 9.1 mph. Top speed of me used to be better than that, but I have not been radared after the toe killed the truck on Highway One. Observed speed of a known PDFD Assistant Chief in PPE without SCBA? 7 mph. Should I park the tractor and run? Factor in coefficient of friction on a snow and ice-covered roadway. For one half mile. Thinking. Thinking. Solution.

I feel the need. The need for maximum tractor speed. Go full rabbit on the throttle and scroll through my I Am Responding time-arriving choices on the iphone. A half mile in three and half minutes.

Volunteer plow driver speeding to volunteer fire station at 9.1 miles per hour; emergency lights a’ flashing. Who knew such fervent socialism could be so visually comedic? Doofuses of the word, unite !

Doofus me makes it to the station and is first in the first rig out. Chief 3 Brian at the wheel on Engine 33, Chief 1 Cam as officer. Me and Lexi in back. Rolled over SUV in a ditch but the only person in it is already out when we get there so we don’t get to play with any jaws of life. Traffic safety duty thus commences and the bane of my existence radio can receive but not transmit. Spare radios two and three also not working, but radio number four does.

Here is a modest request. Next time you see a pancake breakfast or some such thing at your local volunteer fire department, go there and tip them well. Because radios and stuff cost real money.

Anyhow, I am not quite sure if the tractor sprint to the fire station is funnier than bursting into the VFW and commandeering a ride to the station from someone at the bar, but I am sure my action remake of The Straight Story this past Saturday was my 144th fire call of the reporting year. I am only certain of that because the department keeps track of such stuff and the reporting year ended on Nov. 30. Flew by like a gross of bottle rockets.

Turns out, 144 fire calls reflects that no one else is closer to the fire station for longer periods of time over the course of a year than me. I suppose it also reflects some combination of preference to do something rather than be bored, public service as a lifestyle, the quite excellent spirit of camaraderie at the Department and a semi-innate need for the neuron maze atop the spinal column for new and interesting problems to solve.

Whatever it is, it is a mess I have happily gotten myself into. And, other than the slight pang of guilt that volunteering to be a firefighter keeps some IAFF member from being paid to be one, the whole show up, toss on the turnouts and head off for adventure thing is … genuinely calming.