It was a lively Sunday afternoon at the old Hitchcock gym. The gym is seldom used these days, with the school closed long ago. Personally, I’d love to have the old school and turn it into a glorious home and workshop for my many varied interests, most of which need a lot of equipment and space, but the Redheaded Stranger swears he isn’t that handy, and we don’t have the bank account that an enormous undertaking like that would require. But I digress.
Back to the old gym. In the vestibule flat top cookers were lined up like little soldiers. They were drilling with flapjacks, though, not the usual soldierly weapons. Pouring from the neat handheld mechanisms that allow the perfect size every time were fellas more used to pouring water on hotspots – volunteer firefighters. They had it down to a fine science, this one dispensing batter, that one following with spatula in hand to flip at just the precise moment when the hidden underside reached the pinnacle of golden brown. I think he had xray vision. He certainly had superpowers.
Come to think of it, they all have superpowers. I mean, these folks work regular jobs, maybe for the county, or farming, or driving a truck, handling pipe in the oil field. They go about their jobs all around us every day, just like the rest of us.
Unlike most of us, though, they are ready to jump into their truck, head to the firehouse, jump into bunker gear there and show up at our homes on what could be the worst day of our lives.
They chop guards around wildland fires. They bounce across fields to wet down blowing embers in a gale force wind. They get battered around by full firehoses so heavy that they seem to have a life and a mind of their own, and they do all this without a regular paycheck from it. Essentially, they run into a burning building when the rest of us are running away.
A while back, Blaine County residents had the good sense to enact a sales tax percentage that is earmarked for the nine fire departments in the county. They recently also removed the sunset on that tax, meaning we don’t have to approve it every eight years or so.
And the firefighters use the money carefully, judiciously, with approval by the commissioners. They buy new bunker gear and hoses, not trips to Tahiti.
Just about all of the departments also hold fundraisers, like the one in the gym at Hitchcock. I suspect that money is often used to help those who have suffered from a fire, or to cover expenses the sales tax fund isn’t meant to supply, like fuel for personal vehicles that has been used up rushing to answer the siren’s call.
The thing about all this is, it was a hoot. I didn’t think I knew a lot of folks from that neck of the woods, but there they were. I still don’t know if they live up there or just drove in to support the firefighters. No matter which it was, there was an incredible sense of neighborliness spreading like – well, like wildfire. Friends and neighbors who hadn’t seen each other all winter visited, admired each other’s kids or grandkids, heard happy news about expectant families, or engaged couples, those who had moved away or passed on. Purchases of land, homes and equipment were discussed and rehashed. This farmer asked that cattleman if he had enough hay to make it until green up. Kids ripped and roared up and down the bleachers and suffered the occasional wipeout, only to be picked up and comforted by mama or papa or their great aunt Susie.
It was a wonderful time. No television, no loud music, and most people even put down their phones for a bit. It was the old sense of community that used to prevail everywhere all the time and one that we miss more than we know.
So, if you get the chance to attend a fundraiser, cake sale or other event that seems a little archaic and dated, jump at the chance. It is well worth the price of admission, which is usually tax deductible. And the pancakes are great.