Probie X

Time is the enemy.  I walk to work these days, out the back door and down a small grade at the edge of the backyard, where the banks of the mill pond used to contain the spring-fed water that ran the mill.  The mill is long gone, replaced with a sign on a post that tells of its history.  The pond is gone too, replaced with a park with two semi-spongy ballfields.  A trail now runs along the spring-fed creek, with the creek creeking past the concrete foundation of the long gone mill, giving unsuspecting trout a small thrill every now and then. 

So, you can travel to Mill Run, PA, to see Wright’s Fallingwater.  Or you can travel to Poynette, and imagine Wright being inspired by our mill, as Muir was inspired by our landscape.  In the summer you can also take in a ballgame or two, and walk down to the coffee shop for some ice cream, after the home team wins and you’ve had your last $1 beer.  You can stop at the library and get a book about … I don’t know … Fallingwater. 

It’s not summer.  It’s cold.  But I still walk to work, down the icy grade and along the steaming creek and over the icy bridge past the hibernating ball diamonds and along the (somewhat leaking) town ice rink to the grey office with the big black and white Mount Whitney picture and bright red desk and bold punk rock and physics posters.  But there’s an extra stop in winter. 

Go inside, turn on the lights, drop off the work bag with last night’s genius idea in it and then head back outside.  Park Force One awaits its pre-flight check.  Park Force One is a rusty old Ford pickup, which has seen too many days of salting Poynette’s streets to retain all of its bodywork.  No longer suitable for Public Works duty, it still runs, and has a flashing orange light on it.  So, rather than trade it in for $500, we kept it as a utility truck for parks and admin. 

Thinking ahead, which is its own curse, Park Force One is also the semi-official winter rocketship used to convey me to the Fire Station in under a minute when the pager goes off whilst I’m at Village Hall.   Supermoto in the summer.  Park Force One in the winter.  Backed into the parking space closest to the street, I run to PF1 whilst tearing my belt off and unbuttoning my shirt.  Jump in, turn the key, floor it and pull some serious pickup truck lateral g’s around the curves leading to the station.  Time is the enemy.

Since time is the enemy, every morning includes a pre-flight check that the ol’ girl still runs and has her windshield clear of ice.  So that involves sitting in a cold pickup truck for a few minutes while it warms up and the windshield defrosts.   Some people yoga.  Some people meditate.  I sit in a cold rusty pickup truck and watch the ice slowly melt off the windshield.  Whatever works, as they say.

Something I did not quite figure out at the start was the never off duty bit.  The always being ready, and thinking in advance about the next time the pager goes off.  Because when it goes off, the last thing you want to be is unprepared.  Having all your clothes set out in the right sequence, your keys sitting on the counter, your car / motorcycle / wooden bicycle pointing in the right direction.  It becomes its own “thing”.  Eating now, rather than later.  Going to the bathroom now, rather than later.  Being ready, all the time, every minute. 

I did not have a real understanding of what being a volunteer firefighter was before I signed up.  I had always worked for cities with paid, professional fire departments.  With shifts.  On for twenty four hours.  Off for forty eight hours.  Shifts.  With, and I can’t stress this enough, off time.  Holidays.  Or Holiday pay.  Overtime.  With overtime pay.  Off time with … do whatever you want.  There’s another shift on duty.  Bless you, IAFF Local #17.  You rule.     

Observation.  Not a complaint.  There is no off duty when you live and work in a town as a volunteer firefighter.  There is only answering the call, and preparing (with the ocd thing that you will get even if you didn't start with it) to answer the call.  So you don’t head out the door without your keys, or your pants.  Or your shoes.  Not that (and speaking from experience) that’s too serious a thing because not having shoes only means you save a step removing them when you jump into your boots/pants combo at your locker. 

Time is the enemy.  But (again with the Jason Isbell thing) is it really?  Time is a construct and the only real trick to it is you don’t know how much of the construct you’re allotted when you show up to greet the world.  It’s just a construct.  So enjoy whatever you’re allotted.  Make it count.  And wear shoes only when you really need to.