Milt Reynolds: Thinking Out Loud

Faded Glory: On Being an Ex-Firefighter, Part 1 Faded Glory: On Being an Ex-Firefighter, Part 2 Faded Glory: On Being an Ex-Firefighter, Part 3 I connected with the local Fire Corps . They support the fire department with rehabilitation, fundraising, and behind-the-scenes assistance that does not require exposure to smoke or fire. Firefighters at structure fires or incidents that last more than a few hours require fresh water and food and places to rest, protected from temperature extremes. The Fire Corps meets these needs. I still cannot participate regularly, but special events can be scheduled ahead of time. I can fit my calendar to some of the opportunities to serve. My first experience with helping the Fire Corps occurred this past week, and it slammed home the startling realization that I am a has-been, a no-name, an ex-firefighter, experiencing faded glory. I knew no one in the Fire Corps, and they knew little about me. I served food and water to firefighters attend...

Faded Glory: On Being an Ex-Firefighter, Part 1 Faded Glory: On Being an Ex-Firefighter, Part 2 About three years ago, in the spring of 2007, I moved to work at a facility that incinerates chemical weapons. I live in a small town that relies on volunteers for most of their fire calls. I drive past their main fire station often, and I easily hear their sirens. The air horns especially bring strong memories of firefighting...only fire apparatus use air horns. My work schedule is crazy. They call it a "DuPont Schedule"...I guess it was first implemented at DuPont or something. I only work fourteen days a month, but it's the hardest fourteen days I've ever experienced. It's not hard in terms of work, but it's hard in terms of sleep...I don't get much of it, at least not any of quality. It's a rotating shift schedule, switching weekly between night and day shifts. In black and white print, the 12-hour shifts seem benign: Night Shift: 5:00 pm to 5...

Faded Glory: On Being an Ex-Firefighter, Part 1 I used to be a volunteer firefighter. I wore a pager on my belt. I had a radio by my easy chair, programmed to scan dozens of local emergency frequencies. Every Tuesday night was drill night. Alarms frequently interrupted my weekday evenings at home and family activities on the weekend. I could imagine the location of virtually any address in my town and I often roamed the rural areas, looking for odd addresses. I scanned the horizon often, looking for the first faint plumes of dark smoke that indicated a brush fire. I ignored the huge billows of white smoke erupting from controlled burning of wheat field stubble. Every siren caught my attention instantly. I could distinguish between police and ambulance calls just by the sound. Police prefer the yelp...medics favor the wail. I became anxious during hot afternoons if more than four hours passed quietly without a call. Hot weather seems to ignite the trash-burning instinct in ...