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Excessive habits.

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*Note: Patient is stated to be 350LB*

Ugh. The text glowed white on a black background, eliciting inward consternation and outward groans for my partner and myself.

As Medic 19 lumbered up Georgia Avenue, I clicked "enroute" on the computer and flipped it closed. We had been fitfully trying to get back for lunch, but no such luck today. Any day on an ambulance, really. Far out of our response area, we headed north to find what awaited us on Shepherd Street.

Jay (as we'll call him) was seated completely naked on the floor of the basement he lived in, surrounded by the sparsity of a man whose sole obsession is certainly not furnishing his living quarters. Instead, Jay's room accessories consisted of a TV, a high-backed rolling office chair parked in front of it, and six or eight of the 50-count DVD towers full of porn.

(Oh, and there was a small coffee table; the one square foot of it what was not covered in porn had amassed a collection of chinese food containers, stacked twenty or thirty high.)

There was porn on the walls, there was porn kicked under the bed, there was porn still in unmarked brown mailing boxes, waiting to be unwrapped. Porn playing cards had apparently fallen over quite some time ago and were left to lie about; the few of them that remained visible offered a stark and explicit punctuation to the collection of dirty towels and clothes on the floor.

Taking a history and obtaining vitals was a surreal sort of moment, surrounded by every manner of pornographic material. Apparently the southwest corner of the room was the blacks-on-blondes fodder; yet another DVD tower specialized only in group social functions of staggering proportions.

Side note: I wasn't aware that they even made Innocent Until Proven Filthy 13, much less the first twelve that were neatly organized above it in the rack. Others were far more blunt (and thus unprintable here).

—————

According to Jay, he had come home from lunch and needed to go to the bathroom; shortly thereafter, he sat down on his chair, became dizzy, and slid to the floor.

Sir, at what point between sitting in this chair and sitting on the floor did your clothes spontaneously fly off?

(I couldn't bring myself to ask.)

Physiologically, everything checked out. He was a touch confused, but not in a stroke kind of way. More of a "uh, why did I pass out naked and who are these people in my house?" kind of way. His vitals were great, but we all agreed that he should be transported to the hospital anyways; his obesity had led him down the road to a number of chronic medical conditions, and it was impossible for us to rule out the etiology of his syncopal episode.

(If you ask me, the only chronic thing he's suffering from is a… *ahem* protein deficiency.)

The TV was blaring the entire time we were there. Surprisingly, it wasn't porn. Instead, the classic Guess Who's Coming To Dinner added to the general absurdity of the room. Sidney Poitier's soothing baritone rang out through the TV as we wheeled Jay out the door and into the ambulance.

—————

"Did you see my movies?"

"Hmm?" I looked up distractedly from the tablet computer where I was entering his most recent set of vital signs.

"Did you see all of my movies?"

There was a hint of pride in his voice, and I was only half-surprised that his first cogent sentence was about his pile 'o porn.

"Uh, yeah. That's… quite a collection you have there."

"Aw, that's not that much. It's pretty small right there, but I have more somewhere else."

My mind reeled at the thought of Jay's U-Stor-It unit somewhere nearby. He would fling the rolling door up with a great flourish to reveal another collection of unimaginable quantity; and like Scrooge McDuck, he would jump in and laugh as he swam amongst the DVDs piled inside his vault.

I snapped back to reality as I realized he was listing off names, seeking my approval for various titles and actresses.

"Gianna Michaels, she's pretty good… The Lesbian Truth or Dare series? I like Alexis Texas, too…"

He drifted off into his own thoughts, and I left it at that.

“The Lost Art of Firemanship” – an excerpt.

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I was recently digging through the supply closet at the firehouse when I came across this withered citation in a battered frame. I had seen similar items littering the walls of other firehouses, but I had never paid much attention to them—nearby, the proudly-snapped photos of big fires and grinning, smoke-stained crews always proved to be more visually appealing.

However, as I held the wooden frame and blew the dust off the smudged glass, I was curious about the wording of the citation itself. Issued from the District of Columbia Associate of Insurance Agents on October 8th, 1958, the citation offers high praise for Engine 15 as the "Company of the Year."

In recognition of devotion to duty, great firemanship, courage, initiative and teamwork in the highest tradition of the Department, this Citation is presented.

Courage, teamwork… anyone who's received so much as a Most-Improved Player trophy from Little League has heard these buzzwords countless times.

But firemanship? What the hell is that?

I had never heard anyone use the term around the firehouse, but I suspected it was the origin of the wistful conversations the older guys have about my younger generation. It's not uncommon to hear cries of "they don't make 'em like they used to," or declarations of a historic pride and dedication that we'll never understand. The "new" Department, they claim, doesn't go to fires, and seems to be solely a miserable medical department with some really big, really red ambulances that can't transport patients.

Now just waitaminnit, you old bastard. My generation's level of dedication to the job—no matter what our call volume consists of—can be addressed later; but maybe we could cross a little bit of this gap if we understood this "firemanship" you speak of.

The Googles did not fail me; interestingly enough, the top hit for "firemanship" was a three-year-old blog called biglinefire, written by the mysterious figure of Jason B.

I was unable to reach him via his blog; as I cannot find any other contact information for him, I was unable to ask for permission to reproduce the excellent post entitled "The Lost Art of Firemanship."

It's absolutely worth a full read. I simply cannot leave this post with a link, but instead must offer some of my favorite excerpts; I can only hope that the gods of copyright will look favorably upon my actions, as I seek no profit from Jason's writing.

—————

Speaking of the most basic tenets of the science behind firefighting, Jason opens the generation gap early:

We learned hot air rises and fire always looks for the path of least resistance. I learned these things when I was 12 years old. Why is it that this basic information seems to be foreign to most people entering the fire service today? Yes that was many years ago… but the kids these days have grown-up in a much different time and culture than I did.

Although, he would posit, the blame for my generation's problems rests on more shoulders than our own:

…Many of the “kids” appear to lack basic life skills: how to clean a toilet; how to press a shirt; how to cook a basic meal or how to follow simple instructions. It is not all their fault. We as a society must take our share of the blame.

We again fail them in the academy… I have seen as little as four hours of the fire academy dedicated to SCBA… The instructors have spent much more time on topics such as Hazmat, confined space and terrorism. 

The writer fully admits that problems without solutions are useless; he offers a bit of advice from his point of view, regarding moving forward and keeping the problem from growing any worse:

…we cannot change how the next generation is raised. But we can encourage vocational education. It should be ok to take a shop class.* People should know how things work and how to fix things and I don’t mean debugging a computer program or how to hard reboot a CPU.

…we must not forsake our traditions. Fire has been fought by men and women, crawling down hot, smokey hallways taking a beating to put the fire out. It was dangerous then and remains dangerous now. Let’s not let forget the lessons learned by our predecessors; take the time to teach the New Kid what firemanship is about, what the job is about.

* (Just a side note: I graduated from college in 2008, and was never offered anything even close to a shop class during my seventeen years of formal education; in fact, the majority of the people I knew in high school or college couldn't work with tools if their life depended on it. Thanks for looking out for me, Dad!)

His parting sentiment is a nice recap; again, the entire post is a great read when taken together, but the wrap-up is a good reminder to us young 'uns… anyone who truly cares will take it to heart:

As a profession we must return to the basics of our trade: Hot, dirty, hard work that every generation has done before us. Keep yourself educated, in shape and be true to the job. Remember we are the fire service and it is only as good as we make. Do not forget Firemanship, because without it public works could do our job.

—————

So what happened? Why is my generation so different from the previous two? Have entire similarly-aged recruit classes been genetically predisposed to have an "I don't give a shit" attitude? Or is it that if we were working our asses off and going to fires as often as our predecessors, we'd be better firemen over all?

Ah, the nature v. nurture debate rages on. Maybe firemanship died with all the fires. But methinks that lazy firemen have existed since the profession started, and good, dedicated firemen will continue to prosper in any Department. It's really just up to the individual.

But on firemanship: it's nice to finally have a term that represents that… thing. That idea that you can't quite put your finger on, but the guys you really respect seem to have it mastered. It almost feels like a spiritual concept, something many of us strive for but few will ever really embody.

I certainly don't have it yet; but figuring out what the hell it is sounds like a good first step.

A consulting gig on 15th and East Capitol, NE.

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4:06 a.m. – Engine 8 is dispatched on a single-engine local alarm for smoke in the area.

4:15 a.m. – Everyone else is dispatched to deal with what they found.

A great video clip can be found at this link; credit to Vernard Green on Medic 8 at the time.

(As usual, click for full-size images.)

Motir Services, Inc. is (was) a consulting firm serving the DC area; clients include The Library of Congress, Arlington National Cemetery, The U.S. Department of Agriculture, and a whole slew of DC government organizations. Their self-description reads:

"A MULTI-SERVICES FIRM WHOSE PRINCIPAL STRENGTH IS THE ABILITY TO TAKE THE WORLD’S MOST SOPHISTICATED MANAGEMENT SKILLS AND APPLY THEM IN ORDER TO YIELD ONE CONSISTENT PRODUCT – WORLD-CLASS SERVICES."

Perhaps the folks at Motir could offer some upper-management-level advice regarding the best placement of this ladder (not that Truck 7 needed it).

The fire eventually went to two alarms, and took approximately thirty minutes to control. At one point, there was fire to be found on every one of the four story building, including a large wooden lean-to structure on the roof.

—————

Do you know what the best part was? Nobody cared what we were wearing.

Alright, that's it. I'm finally going to bed.

/RL

Spring cleaning… in more ways than one.

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Painting, scrubbing, polishing, mopping, organizing…

Yes, it's time for spring cleaning and firehouse inspections (and, ostensibly, the company pride that's held within).

 

Good thing we now have lots of extra cleaning rags. (Fox5, via Statter911's original summary)

 

 

The Best Camera.

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Having misplaced my old, yet durable, point-and-shoot, I've been relying on my iPhone for my "work" camera. One of my dSLRs is too bulky for regular use; I find that the iPhone, while not having stellar image quality, certainly gets the job done.

You know what they say… the best camera is the one that's with you.

What's amazing about the advancement of technology is that the iPhone actually has more resolution than the first "pro"-level Nikon digital SLR (The D1, with a hefty price tag of almost $5,000 and a weight to match, sported a groundbreaking 2.7 megapixels). In comparison, my iPhone 3GS has 3 megapixels—I'll concede that the sensor size is different, but without going too much into the mechanics of it, it's still pretty damned amazing. Plus, I can do some post-processing in-camera by using an app called… wait for it… "BestCamera," created by photographer Chase Jarvis' awesome team. It's only $2.99, but you can get some amazing results with it. In fact, Chase's vision has started something of a neat community of iPhone photographers, whose work you can browse here.

Plus, this Apple hardware seems to have held up pretty well kicking around the inside of my bunker coat pocket, along with some door chocks and a few random tools. (Thanks, OtterBox.)

Regardless, it's always with me at work, and I enjoy those "ohmygodIwishIhadacamerarightnow" moments. Because I do! And I revel in going through my phone's photos every few months, because I forgot about most of the ridiculous stuff that's on there.

So here ya go. As always, click to embiggen.

 

Burn Foundation Fundraisers: a good excuse for firemen to get together and bowl at 8am in the morning.

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A poorly-built third story addition in NE… on one hell of a windy day.

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An early morning fire in our first-due area, from a few tours ago.

He had just put a new helmet in service that day, and said that he wanted to burn it up a little bit…

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Basketball, anyone? I think it adds a genuine Southeast touch to our firehouse.

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Potomac Gardens, up in Capitol Hill. An apartment off on the 3rd floor displaced quite a few residents. The woman from the fire apartment was (quite literally) dumped in my arms by Truck 7 for medical care, as she was found in the apartment with significant airway damage from smoke and heat.

View from the courtyard; the windows that weren't smashed out were coated with a thick, greasy soot.

I was pleasantly surprised to see other locals bringing coffee and hot chocolate to the displaced elderly residents who had to sit outside in the cold for a while; it looks like people from Capitol Hill have hearts, after all!

—————

Every firefighter in the city knows exactly what this is… but what it's doing sitting in someone's yard on Park Rd in NW, I have no idea.

Resolutions.

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It’s a yearly thing that I notice in my gym; right around this time of year, the stations seem to be busier, the cardio room is more crowded, and the wife can never seem to find an open elliptical machine. “What gives?” I always ponder, as I turn away from yet another several-deep line in front of a station. Then it hits me, just like it always does.

Ohhh. New Years resolutions.

I applaud everyone who wants to get “back on track,” as lots of them say. It’s an excellent goal, and I’m happy to help in any way I can. But sadly, I see far too many new, eager faces who disappear sometime around February—replaced by the familiar, down-to-business exchanges and curt smiles of the regulars as we trade benches and barbells.

“Are you finished with this?”

“Sure, it’s all yours.”

—————

Our is a physical job, and as such the need for fitness was drilled into us from Day One. Hell, even before that—we needed to pass a physical agility test just to be considered for recruit school.

Of course, being put through the paces of a fire academy is one thing.

At least nobody forces us to do crazy shit any more, like dragging truck tires all over the place.

I doubt there was a single comrade from class 358 who didn’t leave that (&@$#ing) Tower in some of the best shape of our lives. But we all know what happens afterward.

Not working out for several hours every morning for five days/week

+

Three humongous meals/shift, usually of heavy comfort food

=

BFFs (no, not Best Friends Forever; the other one, Big Fat Firefighters.)

We’re all guilty of it. I personally packed on about 15-17 lbs in less than six months out of the Academy. It happens! But the good news is that it can be reversed, I promise.

It’s not just for looking good. Like I said, ours is a very physical job. Lifting, pulling, crawling, dragging… it’s a good idea to keep up with some form of regular exercise, either at work or outside of it. It’s a benefit not just to you, but also to your coworkers (who may need your help in the worst of circumstances) as well as your family (who of course want you safe and healthy for many years to come).

Is anyone in your respective departments trying to establish a more concrete fitness program? I know of a few firehouses over my way that have done their own version of “The Biggest Loser,” and I’ve heard of others whose crews all make a pact to work out together during their shift. These and many other ideas are all over the web: a quick search for “firefighter fitness” yields over a million results. Kettlebell workouts, simple weight training programs, military cross-training, CrossFit for Public Safety… the list is endless. I was working a trade a while back and on one run, the officer slid the pole just absolutely soaked in sweat. I asked him what the hell he had been doing upstairs, and it turns out he was in the middle of ExtremeFitness’s Insanity Workout. (The name, by the way, is in no way misleading. It’s painful, and you’re a bad mofo if you can make it through all sixty days.)

Amazon.com has plenty of results, too. If you’re more of a book fan, you’ll find plenty of manuals and healthy eating regimens aimed at public safety employees (the food issue, however, is a subject for another post entirely.) For the longest time, one of my favorite resources was a no-nonsense, fact-filled book aimed at police/fire called “Fit for Duty.”

Whether it’s for New Years or not, it’s never too late to put forth some effort into being in better shape. Some guys at work stay in shape, some guys don’t. You can’t change everyone, but the first month of the year is as good a time as any to make a decision for yourself.

Buy a bicycle. Go for a short jog. Even just start walking a few miles per day, a few days a week (you’d be surprised at how quickly your body can respond to just a slight rise in your activity level. If you have a dog, he’ll love it, too.)

Be one of those people who doesn’t fall off the wagon! And maybe I’ll see you around the gym… all the way through December.

Some old history for the new year.

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Happy 2011, to all you readers and fellow bloggers alike!

I thought it might be appropriate, even as we venture into the second decade of the third millennium, to share some history that I came across just a few days shy of the New Year.

“Original artwork of Old Engine 15″, © Michael McGurk

Inspired by an image on the cover of the most recent Capital City Firefighter magazine, I re-read the brief history posted online about the DC Fire Department. Specifically, I was scanning for this:

April 15, 1898: Engine Company 15 was placed in service at Washington & Pierce Streets, Anacostia (these streets are now 14th & V Streets S. E. respectively).  Engine 15 went in service with an 1883 Clapp & Jones 450 GPM steam fire engine and an 1889 McDermott Bros. hose reel carriage.

Well, since the street names have changed, what else about the area would have changed? My next step was finding a historic map, circa 1898.

Apparently, the University of Alabama has a serious thing about maps—their archive is quite impressive. I was able to secure three maps that I liked (as always, click for higher resolution):

The first is a portion of a US Army Corps of Engineers map from 1890. Originally drawn to show which parts of the city were damaged by sewage during a flood in June of 1889, this map had the best view of Southeast Washington on the far side of the Anacostia River. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s the intersection of Washington and Pierce Streets. I was, however, unable to find out when the streets changed their names. I suppose Anacostia (or “Uniontown,” as it was called when it was developed as a suburb) didn’t adopt the lettered/numbered street naming system until later—even though it had already been incorporated into the city of Washington by 1878. The second is a whole map from 1895, which is a detailed map of what they called the “main portion” (mostly Northwest) of D.C. This map looks very similar in style to the Rand-McNally maps we still use; even though the hyphenated term is a household name today, this map is so old that William Rand himself was CEO of the company for four more years after this was produced.

The final map is actually dated 1898, and it’s a chunk of an old US Geological Survey map. The streets aren’t written out too well, but I like how the neighborhoods are labeled in relation to one another.

—————

Anyways, I had a good time digging up these pieces of history and I thought some of you might enjoy ‘em. I’m sure there are some old photographs kicking around the firehouse that I could put up, too. We’ll see—I’ll be sure to check during my next shift.

Now, if I could just get my hands on a copy of the highly-desirable “100 Years of Glory…”

one city block

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“Victim, if you can hear me, keep tapping on something!”

It started slowly, almost imperceptibly. I pressed the headphones tighter to my head with one hand and turned the volume up.

tap… tap… tap…

It was definitely there, and it was clear as day.

tap… tap… tap…

Whoever was under the rubble had heard us, and their soft taps of flesh on concrete were the only indication that they were still alive.

Nobody else could hear it—-only the Delsar operator wearing the headset. I turned on the electronic filters designed to eliminate electrical hums and the rumble of apparatus, and started to triangulate the sound.

We had placed three of the sensor “pucks” out in a three-pronged attack on the pile of destroyed concrete and rebar beneath us. The other rescuers stood dead still, avoiding making any extraneous noise during this most crucial of times.

Hmm… it’s not so loud on Number 1. A bit stronger on Number 2; and all quiet on Number 3.

“Alright, let’s move ‘em around; it’s loudest near Two.”

And so the process went, calling and tapping and moving and listening.

—————

Con-Space Communications, Ltd., the makers of the Delsar LifeDetector Seismic/Acoustic listening system (as well as the SearchCams we utilized that day to find our “victims”) was a company started in the early 90′s as a high-tech revolution to the methods of urban search and rescue in use at the time. Today, they’re one of the largest manufacturers of audio, video, and acoustic devices used to locate trapped victims in environments all over the world.

Utilizing the Delsar system and SearchCam devices, the Engine and Rescue Squad trained on finding victims in one of the simplest, yet most intriguing training sites I’ve been to yet. In Crofton, MD, there’s a pile of concrete and rubble that amounts to about one city block of destruction.

Arranged in a giant U-shape and up to twenty-plus feet in height in some places, the site offers plenty of void spaces for us to practice in.

—————

“I got one!”

The firefighter crouched down on his haunches and shouted back to the group. Cazo—our trusty K-9—had located a victim and alerted us; shortly thereafter, a SearchCam probe inserted into a dark hole revealed a human form. He was dusty, but he was there.

After we had removed the random mixture of pallets, old carpet, and torso-sized hunks of what was once a building, Mike stood up and smiled at us.

“Man, it’s dark as shit down there!”

We laughed as we helped him out of the hole, and moved onto the next evolution. Three hours later, it was clear that we have some very powerful tools at our disposal for the various situations that we may encounter on a true building collapse.

But the emphasis, as with most things, can be placed back on basics. Fancy toys are nice, but don’t always take the place of tried-and-true methods like hailing–just shout to any victims who can hear and listen for a response. Anyone trapped can then be triangulated by rescuers placed strategically around the site.


A special thanks must be offered to Sgt. Holmes and Lt. Kauffman, who helped all the companies out with the drill (especially the Lieutenant, who spent most of the day wedging himself into tight spaces as the victim!)

Also, we can’t forget Cazo! Some of you may remember my post about two of our own working in Haiti. He’s one badass dog.


The long-awaited Dublin Fire Brigade update!

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ireland_RL-11_sm

A voice rang out from down the hallway, with it’s owner appearing around a corner seconds later.

“Hey! We’ve got a call near the Liffey!

Glenn turned his head from us and cursed quietly.

“Are we goin’ swimming?” he asked, tentatively.

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

Glenn’s head lolled back towards us with a sheepish grin.

“Oh, thank God for that. I’m on the back step tonight, and that river’s dirty as hell.”

Glenn Delves is 29 years old and has been with the Dublin Fire Brigade for seven years. Currently assigned to the Tara Street station (which also serves as Brigade headquarters during the the day), his role as a firefighter, paramedic, and swiftwater rescue technician is nothing unique to the 40-some other firefighters in the house with him.

“Oh yeah, we’re all paramedics… and it just makes sense for most of us to be SRTs, since the river is right nearby and we go in there pretty frequently for all sorts of stuff.”

Waitaminute, back up. Forty firefighters?

“It’s the biggest house in Dublin. Even after HQ shuts down for the day, we still have a lot of people here.”

Almost as if he anticipated the question (probably by the incredulous look on my face), he added:

“Oh, and kitchen duty is horrible.”

Screen shot 2010-03-09 at 11.31.13 AM

The tour of the firehouse was brief but fascinating. The station opened at the intersection of Tara and Pearse Streets was opened as DFB headquarters in April of 1908—the old brick watchtower still stands, and is a historically protected structure by the city of Dublin. Today, it exists as an open-air station with canopy covers for the apparatus and multiple floors for bunkrooms, the mess hall, administrative offices, and “Control Room” (the call-taking center for the entire city as well as many surrounding counties, staffed 24 hours a day by full-time Brigade personnel).

Unfortunately, our trip was cut short by Glenn and the rest of his crew headed out on calls—with approximately 133,000 calls annually, the Dublin Fire Brigade must balance the average 364 daily calls amongst twelve full-time (and three on-call or “retained”) stations. However, with locations like Tara Street staffing two engines, two ladder trucks, one tower ladder, two ambulances, a Haz-Mat Unit, and a District Officer, the workload seems pretty well spread-out.

ireland_RL-23_sm

It was a wonderful trip, and I can’t express my gratitude to the DFB enough. If there’s any Dublin Fire personnel reading this, I sincerely appreciate your hospitality and wish you all the best in your careers—take care and stay safe, brothers.

Oh, and if you ever need a place to crash in D.C., drop me a line and I’d be more than happy to help out.

/RL

ireland_RL-13_smGlenn Delves, a seven-year veteran of the Dublin Fire Brigade, opens compartments on the fire engine and describes the equipment contained within.


ireland_RL-14_smAs Swiftwater Rescue Technicians (SRTs), the crews of the Tara Street station keep their river rescue gear ready on the apparatus at all times.


ireland_RL-15_smThe Dublin Fire Brigade utilizes Dräger breathing apparatus; three SCBA packs line the rear wall of the bench seat for the firefighters “on the back step” for that shift.


ireland_RL-12_smI think it’s universal: DFB personnel dislike their ambulance rotations just as much as their American counterparts do, it seems.

(I can just hear Dave Dennis now: “That suck-ass rookie paramedic would go to an Irish firehouse and take pitchurrs of a ambalance!” Yep—go ahead, Dave, have your fun.)

ireland_RL-9_smThis button from the DCFD Emerald Society is older than I am. There’s quite an impressive wall of patches just inside the entrance to the station—incidentally, one of Glenn’s coworkers is now the proud owner of a classic E26/T15 “Foghorn Leghorn” patch.


ireland_RL-17_sm(I bet they hate the sound of their printer winding up, too.)


ireland_RL-26_smAfter Firefighter Delves (unfortunately) stated that he disliked his appointed nickname of “Glennsy,” the jokes compounded until his gear was permanently branded with “Glennsy Delvesy” in permanent marker. Much to his chagrin, he discovered it just as he was escorting these visitors through the facilities.


ireland_RL-28_smThe distinctive markings on this helmet indicate the rank of “sub-officer;” personnel advance from Firefighter to Sub-Officer to Station Officer to District Officer and beyond, receiving increasing responsibilities with each promotion.


ireland_RL-25_smWe arrived just in time for evening shift change, so we were witness to the daily equipment checks; it would appear that DFB ladder technicians get to ride in comfortable style while operating the turntable.


ireland_RL-24_sm(I would be remiss if I didn’t include something about “raising” a “ladder”, no? Terrible joke, I’m sorry.) Both DFB aerial ladders within the Tara Street Station reach 100′ in the air when fully extended. “There aren’t too many high-rises throughout the city,” say Firefighter Delves, “but we’re downtown. The business district around us has the highest buildings you’ll see in Dublin.”


ireland_RL-16_smAll hose carried on the apparatus is kept rolled. At a fire, the equivalent of the American lineman’s position would get off the piece, unroll a section of hose, connect a nozzle, and then advance to the structure; the Dublin Fire Brigade does not utilize pre-connected lines.


ireland_RL-10_sm

The DFB operates on a 39-hour work week, across four shifts (designated A through D). The spacious accommodations of Tara Street are more than enough to feed and house approximately forty personnel per shift, from firefighter through the on-duty District Officer.

—————

On a non-fire department note: a little bit later, I’ll add some pictures from the highlights of the remainder of my vacation. I know it’s not particularly relevant to RL as a whole, but it’s a beautiful country, and I would highly recommend Ireland for anyone who enjoys traveling.

I used to like snow. Really, I did.

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e9_smImage © muohace_dc

I used to like playing in the snow, stomping through it… snowball fights, snow angels, the whole nine wintery yards.

But after working in all this?

I’m kicking the head right off of the next snowman I see (and see them I will, because it’s dumping snow right now and I’m working tomorrow).

So many streets were impassable, even with snow chains. Many of our calls involved parking the engine and ambulance way down the block and hiking our equipment through the streets to get to the patient’s house—which may or may not offer us a shoveled walkway for access.

snowdrift_smImage © meischc

I lost count of how many times we had to dig the ambulance out. The engine became stuck a few times, too—and without fail, as soon as we dig ourselves out, here comes a shout from down the street: “Hey, can you guys come give us a hand?”

Why you’re out here at this ungodly hour of the night, trying to make headway on an unplowed street in a little-ass sedan, I have no idea. But never mind that, intelligent citizen. We’d be happy to assist you in your time of need. *grumble*

spo_smImage © theqspeaks

A few funny moments:

  • Walking back down the street—carrying the med bag, cardiac monitor, and O2 bottle—I slipped and landed, cartoon-style, right on my ass (I only wish the oxygen bottle hadn’t fallen between my legs at that exact instant). A few concerned folks who were out shoveling their sidewalks sharply stifled their laughter and asked if I was okay. Ah, everything’s okay here; my pride broke my fall.
  • Warning: not all packed snow is as sturdy as you might think. Standing on what used to be a sidewalk, I was asking questions to a patient outside. Suddenly, I found myself three feet lower than I was before. I’m sure it was quite comical (including my awkward climb out of the thigh-deep snow): “So sir, how long have you been FOOOM—uh, dammit.”
  • “Hey rookie! Why don’t you climb up front and see how the engine handles in the snow.” Shit. As I hauled myself into the driver’s seat, I experienced a horrible recurring dream that always ended with me typing a very long letter: “Dear Fire Chief…”
  • Calls delayed dinner until 8pm; calls further delayed my cleaning duties, such that I was still mopping at midnight. (Being a rookie; ain’t it grand??)
  • 1:30 a.m. – “Ma’am, how long have you been experiencing this headache?”   “Since July.”
  • 4:20 a.m. – resetting a fire alarm at a large garbage facility, slogging through (what I hope was) water as we contemplated what time our relief would arrive.

I folded up my sheets and pillow at 4:45 a.m., having not even climbed into bed once.

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As far as keeping up with changing weather conditions, Twitter can prove extremely useful.

DC Fire/EMS (@dcfireems):

DC Dept. of Transportation (@DDOTDC):

Maryland State Hwy Administration (@MDSHA):

They’re perfect for mobile updates, so you can keep updated whether you’re out and about or stuck inside.

I’ll be out there tomorrow, and I’m looking forward to another fun-filled tour on the Northeast streets…

Stay safe, everyone.

/RL

DCFD’s own in Haiti, plus picture compilations.

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First and foremost, I’m proud to see one of DCFD’s own searching for survivors after the terrible earthquake in Haiti.

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From www.tampabay.com’s All Eyes feature: Christopher Holmes from the Fairfax County Urban Search and Rescue searches for survivors in the rubble of a building after a massive earthquake on January 14, 2010 in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Planeloads of rescuers and relief supplies headed to Haiti as governments and aid agencies launched a massive relief operation after a powerful earthquake killing possibly thousands. Numerous buildings were reduced to rubble by the 7.0-strong quake on January 12. (Photo by Joe Raedle/Getty Images)

I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Sergeant Holmes and his dog before, and they do make quite the team together. Great work, Sarge—be safe out there.

Dave Statter of Statter911 has been doing an excellent job chronicling the efforts Virginia’s Task Forces One and Two; more information (video interviews, news updates, pictures, etc.) is available here.

Alan Taylor, the brains behind Boston.com’s The Big Picture, has kept up an excellent feed of images from various stages of collapse, rescue, and recovery; Earthquake in Haiti; Haiti 48 Hours Later; Haiti Six Days Later.

(As he writes on the Big Picture “About” page, these photos are the best selections from various wire services that flow into the Boston Globe; he’s got a hell of an eye, and I eagerly await the Mon/Wed/Fri updates.)

Lastly, I’d like to include this image: from the UK’s Evening Star comes a photograph from Port au Prince (© Matthew McDermott) that shows a much greater side than most of the typical pictures of death and destruction so rampant in the news today.

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This is Kiki, an eight-year-old boy who was rescued in the Nazan district after being trapped for over a week underneath the rubble. I’d be pretty ecstatic, too!

A great job and best wishes to every rescue worker who is down in Haiti doing something to help—and here’s to hoping everyone makes it home safely.

Recruit Class 360: congratulations, and good luck! (w/pictures)

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Happy New Year! Yes, I haven’t put up a new post since last year, but there were several factors that led to this:

  1. I wanted to leave the Nikon Festival instructions up for a while, so visitors could make sure to see them (be sure to vote if you haven’t already, and tell your friends/coworkers about it!);
  2. I’ve been keeping busy by helping a recently-graduated recruit class with photography;
  3. I wanted to finish processing all the photos before I posted any of them here.

Anyways, most of that is boring stuff you don’t care about. Let’s get to the pictures!

Some context: Recruit Class 360 invited me along on a special tour (i.e. not the one that the general public gets) tour of the Capitol Building, so the first four photos are a few shots from our chilly winter trek to downtown D.C. They also took one of their official class photos there.

They liked my work, so they asked me to come along to their graduation on December 31st, in which public speaker and Pro Football Hall-of-Famer John Riggins was the guest of honor—the remaining photos are some of my favorite frames from the ceremony.

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Mayor Adrian Fenty stopped by to deliver his remarks, and then shook the hand of each member of 360.

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Mr. Riggins was given a ceremonial helmet, signed by the recruits from 360, as well as a new pair of boots for working around his farm.

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This last frame is my personal favorite from the entire day. Mr. Riggins’ daughter was present at the ceremony with him, and I caught her just as she was trying on Dad’s new helmet.

The full sets of both the Capitol Tour and the Graduation are available through my other site, RaisingLaddersPhotography; there, you’ll find all of these pictures and more, plus all the “hold your certificate and grin at the camera” shots that are inevitable at any ceremony. They’re cheesy but necessary—tell your mother to buy a few!

Just a quick note: All of my photos are my exclusive property, and should not be used, printed, or displayed without my express permission… *ahem*  Engine 6 / Truck 4, I’m looking at you! (source). I’d be more than happy to agree to the use of my photos, I just want to know if you’re doing it.

All the best to the new Probationers from Recruit Class 360; one of them is coming to E26 on the shift after me, so I’ll be seeing him more than a few times; to the rest of you, thank you for the wonderful opportunities to be a part of your graduation. Take care, and good luck!

/RL

The Gauntlet.

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"You should stop…"

I froze in place, realizing for the first time how sweaty I had grown in only a few minutes in gear.

"…drop…"

I crumpled to the ground, covering my face and bashing my knuckles in the process. Come on… stage training be damned—why commit to a fall when they probably don't care how it looks anyways?

"…and roll!"

I could barely contain my laughter as my world went alternately bright and then dark, bright and then dark. The ecstatic squeals and shouts of first-graders were all around me as I flopped around, probably looking for all the world like a big tan fish rimmed in Scotch-Brite.

Yes, it was time for the elementary school kids to meet their Friendly Neighborhood Fireman!

Gijoe Don't play with matches, don't use the stove, ask your parents if you have a smoke detector… 

I had to seriously stop myself from quoting a childhood hero: "Now you know. And knowing is half the battle!"

Demonstrations for elementary schools seem to be pretty common in the Department; the only unfortunate part is that it usually falls to the rookie to demonstrate the finer points of, well, everything.

"How quickly can you get dressed?" Uh, let me go get my gear, and I'll show you!

"What's the stuff on top of the fire truck?" Give me a second to climb up there, and I'll show you!

"How do I call 9-1-1?" Well…

The kids really seem to enjoy having us come by their school; it's really not all that bad unless the children turn violent. And I don't mean playful-violent. I mean full-on, someone-call-a-priest, Children-of-the-Corn violent.

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The Gauntlet.

We try to teach children not to be afraid of us in gear. Admittedly, with our helmets, masks, gloves, air cylinder, and Darth Vader voice, we do tend to frighten the little ones (we always get a few at every school who hide behind the teacher). However, when the children are encouraged to approach and see us up close, one of them always gets a little adventurous. This "fun" spreads like wildfire, and before I know it, I feel like Mickey Mouse on a bad day at Disney World.

Once, I had a child raise his hand not three feet in front of me. In his calmest voice, he asked his teacher: "Can we slap the fireman?"

That was not a good day.

Nevertheless, it's a pretty rewarding experience. From showing them the inside of the engine, to making sure to give the siren a little extra juice when we (inevitably) have to go on a run, they love every second of our show-and-tell.

I may have felt like an idiot while I crawled around on a sidewalk, or been embarrassed by getting bowled over by a bunch of sugared-up six-year-olds…

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…but it's totally worth it.

National Fallen Firefighter’s Memorial – Live Streaming Feed!

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For anyone who is unable to physically attend the memorial ceremonies in Emmitsburg, MD this weekend, Firehouse.com is offering live streaming coverage of both the candlelit vigil Saturday night and the ceremony on Sunday. 

More information is available at the link above, or at STATter911.

The first probation test.

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"Rookie! It's tiiiime!"

Punctuated by the sound of the door being kicked open, Sarge strode out of the officer's quarters with a grin on his face and a taunting inflection in his voice. He was covering for my usual officer that day, and what a special day it was: time for my first ("sixth-month") probation test with the Battalion Chief.

I had been studying all morning, reviewing and memorizing the questions I had researched for the past month. There's a little over seventy of them, and—despite advice to the contrary—I couldn't help but pore over the answers again and again, as if desperately trying to catch some token of knowledge I missed in the first thousand times I read them. I climbed into the wagon, forcing myself to stare out the window instead of at the papers piled on the seat beside me. I mean, what's the point? If you don't have it by now, you don't have it at all.

The office of the Chief for the First Battalion is located on the upper level of Engine 12. As we pulled around the back, the other guy on the engine tried to calm my nerves: "Damn, it kinda looks like a prison. And the warden is waiting for you upstairs!"

Thanks, good pep talk.

He laughed. I didn't. With its drab concrete walls and tightly-barred windows, he wasn't far off.

Image © http://www.dcfd.com
I had difficulty hearing anything but actor Bob Gunton's voice in my head as I slowly climbed the fluorescent-lit stairway.

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"Put your trust in the Lord… 

your ass belongs to me. 

Welcome to Shawshank."





Fortunately, I was granted my freedom a few hours later (we were still in service the whole time, so I had to run a handful of medical calls in the middle of it. Eventually the nervousness gave way to mental exhaustion right before the test was over). It wasn't nearly as bad as I was making it out to be, but again: all this stuff is new to me, and I'm just trying hard not to %@*$ anything up too badly. It's a little nerve-wracking to sit one-on-one with a Battalion Chief, but thankfully he was very fair, as well as open to discussion if I didn't understand something fully. 

Well, the first one's over. Unfortunately, there really isn't any rest for the weary; now it's back to the books for the seventh-month questions!

Random thoughts from last tour.

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Don't stick your head too far out the window to look at stuff when driving around—while wagon drivers are quite adept at avoiding obstacles, tree branches don't really count.

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Chicken gravy is a rather unprofessional thing to find splattered on your pants as you pull up to a medical call. It's even worse to reach in your pocket for gloves and find an actual piece of chicken.

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When you encounter someone who clearly blows you off/ignores you when you make an effort to introduce yourself (simply because you're a rookie), the very next person you meet will give you hell for not introducing yourself.

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Corrollary to the above: You can't win—but try anyways.

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It's great fun to look through a Fire Department yearbook (if that's what it is; it's a similar layout) from thirteen years ago and look up your current instructors/officers/chiefs. There's some wonderful history to be found… and some excellent mid-nineties haircuts.*

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If you sleep late in the bunkroom after you've been relieved, you may or may not be awakened by an air horn and a strip of firecrackers thrown in the door like a SWAT-team's flashbang grenades. I, uh… heard about that happening once. In a magazine. Yeah, it was in a magazine.

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I wasn't aware that they sell pink tank tops with "FLIRTY SEXY SPOILED GIRL" written in glitter… in XXL sizes.


/RL


*It's not mine, so I'm trying to grab a few snapshots. Trust me, I want the pictures, too.

Expectations.

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"Holy shit—she's having a baby!"


I couldn't help but laugh; what is this, a bad movie? Get me some towels and hot water! And ring Doctor Swanson, immediately! 

The way-too-excited MPD officer went sprinting past me; admittedly, I was a bit weighed down with the medical bags, but even if I wasn't, I wouldn't be barreling full-speed down the sidewalk.

I approached the gathering crowd, dropping the bags next to the blurry figure that I assumed to be my patient. I rubbed the 5 a.m. sleep out of my eyes; slowly, the shape in front of me materialized into a twenty-year-old girl, writhing on the ground.

She was on her third pregnancy, with her due date exactly one month from now. Contractions were approximately one minute apart, lasting about one or two minutes each. (Um, this may be getting… complicated soon. Time to go.) I didn't need to be showing off all her business in front of God and creation, so we placed her in the ambulance as fast as we could. After a quick set of vitals and a cursory examination, we were off.

The radio report was quick: age, due date, vitals, no crowning or broken water yet. Seeya in five.

All the way to the hospital and into the OB ward, she kept time like a metronome. Every minute, her body would tense up, followed shortly thereafter by a pained look of exhaustion. The elevator doors opened, and I'm sure that the look of relief on my face was evident to the OB nurses standing down the hall—the last thing I wanted was for three people to get in the elevator, and have three-and-a-half come out. 

My relief quickly turned to surprise when instead of moving to get us into a room, the nurses ambled over with knowing looks on their faces. One marched right up (munching on Skittles, I think) and began scolding the patient.

"R————, are you serious? Again?"

The patient answered with her face shoved into the pad of the stretcher, her awkward positioning and constant movement making her end of the conversation barely intelligible.

"No, this time it's real, I swear! I hurt, real bad!"

"You've been smoking that rock again, haven't you?" It was phrased as a question, but we all knew that it wasn't.

The patient denied it several times, but to no avail. All of a sudden she went limp, the signs of her pain and obstetrical discomfort vanishing before my eyes. She resigned herself to rolling onto her back and scratching her very pregnant belly, as she half-listened to the continued berating from the head nurse. Her expression of anguish was now replaced with a bored look as she asked for pain meds. 

"My stomach really does hurt pretty bad, um… just not right now. Can I have some stuff to take home, in case it hurts later?"

Dammit… I've been had.

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"Yeah, I think we ran her about a month ago. Before you came here. She was just like that, too."

I looked over at my partner drearily as we made up the stretcher for the last time. Normally I would have been mad, but I was just too tired to care.

"That might have helped me identify her as a crack-addicted faker, instead of a woman who was actually having a baby."

"Yeah, I guess so. My bad, dude." The last sentence was thrown over his shoulder as he wheeled the cot out to the ambulance.

Finally given a moment's reprieve, I flopped down into the nearest chair. I yawned and looked around the ER, thinking of everything I had brought here in the past twenty-four hours.

Let's see… over there was the middle-aged guy whose heart rate was around 220. He was maintaining surprisingly well, nonchalantly telling me that he had gone into cardiac arrest "a coupla times" in the past year. 

Somewhere down that hallway was the best place to isolate the young girl on PCP. Not only was she strong as hell (fighting off two security guards, two firefighters, and a nurse all by herself), but she kept screaming requests for Jesus to do unspeakable sexual things to her. It was, as the TV shows say, explicit language.

My eyes trailed over to the hallway beds. Looking at the clean, fresh sheets, I remembered the old man who we had placed there. There wasn't actually anything wrong with him; he was just too old to make it to the bathroom sometimes, and he had soiled himself earlier in the day. Instead of helping him, his family decided that they wanted him a) out of the house for a while and b) to be cleaned by someone else. 

So they called us. Without so much as a word, the family had slammed the door on us within seconds of carrying their father outside. The hospital staff told me that he stayed there for more than a few hours, because it was a huge process to get one of his family members to come pick him up. Apparently, it was "way too soon," and "too much of an inconvenience."

—————

The cold air caused me to inhale sharply as soon as the outer doors whooshed open. The tripsheet was completed; the ambulance was clean; and shift change was nearing. My eyelids felt about as heavy as my boots, and I poured myself into the front seat of the ambulance.

"Hey, man! Close that, it's too damn cold out."

I took one last refreshing breath of the wind whipping through the window and obliged. I sank back into my seat, and dozed off as the sun came up over Northeast D.C. 

It's not always easy, and it's not always fun… but at least it's never boring.

The Farm: a brief introduction.

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"Weren't you guys trying to grow something out here a while back?"

The wagon driver turned from the engine's pump panel and rubbed a thoughtful hand on his chin.

"Yeah, we had tried growing corn out back of the firehouse… don't think it worked, though."

As he turned back to the engine, I couldn't seem to restrain the incredulous smile that played at my lips.

Where in the hell did they assign me?

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Several shifts back, I received orders from on high that I was to report to my permanent assignment. So, I said goodbye to Southeast D.C. and ventured northward to a station colloquially known as "The Farm."


(And yes, that is in fact Foghorn Leghorn on the patch.)

Engine 26 is located in Northeast Washington, in a neighborhood called Brentwood. I can't speak much for the area—since I'm still just barely learning how to get around—but it seems like a pretty standard layout; some nice stuff, some ghetto stuff, and a whole bunch of high-potential-to-burn-to-the-ground stuff.

I'm never certain what to expect in a new house, so I try to keep quiet and let more senior firefighters (read: everyone who's not me) be the first to say anything; in the case of certain guys, they're the first to say everything. Much to my relief, the crew has proved to be significantly more pleasant than I expected. In addition to Engine 26, "The Farm" is also the quarters of Truck 15. All together, the two crews have been acting as very helpful resources for the wonderful chunk of my life known as my probationary period. 

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Luckily, the guys at E15 were nice enough to give me a heads up about being a "probie," so I had no trouble falling into the "hey rookie, make the coffee, answer the phones, put the flag up" routine. 

Now, I just have to weather the probationary questions and official tests—two of which will be administered by the First Battalion Chief. 


Monthly tests… learning the local alarm area… remembering EMS protocols (why did I become a paramedic again?)… completing computerized trip sheets… cleaning up… 

Some days my head spins. Everyone says that this little whirlwind will all be over soon; I'm not sure if that's true or not, but I do know this: it's one hell of a way to keep busy. 

Study hard, rookie. Study hard.

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Honoring our brothers in Buffalo.

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The walkway at the National Fallen Firefighter's Memorial. It's paved with inscriptions about our nation's bravest, donated by their loved ones. The post I wrote many months ago still rings true, and I feel a twinge in my heart when I think about how much this memorial site means to so many people.

This weekend, I was at the Academy for a two-day training class. While I was there, I found out that the three recruit classes currently at the school all traveled up to Buffalo, NY to honor the two firefighters who died in a structure fire last Monday. I'm not sure when they arrived back home, but I wanted to offer some recognition for their display of support and brotherhood. 


You never know when or where a tragedy like this will strike, but it's good to know that fellow comrades across the nation are willing to help. 

A heartfelt thank-you is in order to Recruit Classes 359, 360, and 361; may the two fallen firefighters of the Buffalo Fire Department rest in peace, and may their families be taken care of in their time of need.

Incidentally, the city of Buffalo pushed back their annual Wing Festival in their honor; the festival was now slated to begin today, and donations at the event will go to aiding the families of Lt. Charles "Chip" McCarthy and Firefighter Jonathan Croom. 

Please see the Buffalo IAFF 232 website for more information on how you can donate money to the fund by check or by buying a BFD memorial t-shirt.

Shadows.

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"St. E's for the building!"


Chairs went flying back from the table, miraculously not getting in the way of any of the large guys sprinting towards a single door. Like some bizarre, mustachioed and beer-gutted ballet, dancers in black boots weaved their way around any and all obstacles on the way to the apparatus bay. 

Before our forks could settle where they were thrown onto the table, the kitchen was empty. 

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"Man… some bullshit again."

The run had turned out to be routinely boring, with a small mattress fire on an upper floor that (I believe*) the staff had extinguished themselves. As second-due, Engine 15 had pulled our 400' line up through a rear stairwell, and we were busy re-racking the line when I heard a commotion from above.

At first it was just one figure. A single fuzzy outline, with his arms outstretched above his head. 

Then the banging on the glass started, and another blurry shape joined him. 

As if from a bad zombie movie, more and more figures began showing up at the third-floor window. The only clear outlines against the frosted glass were their hands, pressed up firmly to the surface. The rest of their shapes blended backwards into a mess of limbs, indistinguishable from the other bodies crowded around them.

The illustrious inmates of St. Elizabeth's Mental Hospital were officially awake—and judging from the cacophony resonating off the window, they were not happy about the lights and sirens that woke them. 

"Uh-oh. They're up. They're going to be calling all night long." 

"Yeah… but at least it's 25's area."

I wish I had a picture of it. It would have been perfect for a horror movie poster.



*This happened a few tours ago, and I was thinking about it today. I don't recall the details perfectly, so forgive me if something's a little off.

Many thanks to WeLoveDC!

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My interview with WeLoveDC was posted to their website on Wednesday morning. (I'd have gotten around to this earlier, but I was working that day and spent the entirety of Thursday sleeping… it was a long night.)


Lots of credit is due to Katie, the interviewer extraordinaire, and also to Tom for originally picking up Raising Ladders.

And it's not a half-bad self-portrait, if I do say so myself. Clean portraits like this are surprisingly easy to set up, so I'd be happy to do a shoot if any local firefighters are interested; wives and/or girlfriends (haha, kidding) love this kind of stuff. If you're curious, see this post for more information and ideas.

/RL

Favorite posts thus far.

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I was looking through some of my earlier posts today (I was trying to find one specific picture from the Academy), and I found myself having a damned good laugh while doing so. I had forgotten about some of these, but they're definitely keepers. Maybe you'll get a good chuckle out of them, too.


First Due: We're always trying to beat everyone else to the fire.

Flashover: It's just like that one firefighting movie! (Uh… sort of. Not really.)

Searching: I discovered that I cannot fly.

Spaghetti and Murphy's Law, the Engine Operations Clause: Our early attempts to not be morons.

How to stay calm, Lesson 1: Everything's okay, just breathe… relax…

Finally, Trust Your Team: What would a blog called "RaisingLadders" be without a post about a ladder?
Lots of people complain about how terrible the Academy was—"The Nightmare on Shepherd Parkway," if you will. But looking back, I realize that I had a lot of fun when I was there. Where else can you do job training that's anywhere near as cool? (It beats the hell out of a management training seminar.) 

Besides, if not for the Academy, what in the *#$@ would I have had to write about in the first place?

/RL

Projects.

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On the way back from a call, I often think that there were certain situations/moments that would have lent themselves very nicely to a photographer's presence. It's the potential action shots, mostly; but there are of course some interesting, compelling, and out-right ridiculous moments in this job that would most likely never present themselves the same way again (imagine actually being able to see the scene where the crackhead from a few weeks ago found out I was a rookie and stormed off. Images make any story better!)


I haven't been writing on RL for the past week because I've been working on a way to combine my love of photography with my love of this job; while not as extreme (and highly illegal, in the case of medical calls) as stopping what I'm doing to take pictures of stuff/people while I'm actually working, I'm convinced that there is a way to mix these fields. 

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On my off-days, I've been photographing events around the city (performances, a friend's wedding here or there… you get the idea). I've recently been updating Raising Ladders Photography, and I think it's time to branch out a bit. 

From a photojournalistic point of view, there's quite a few stories to be had within the fire service as a whole. Besides, from knowing a handful of people on this job, everyone loves pictures of themselves. I would get emails from guys in the Academy almost every weekend, asking if I could hurry up and post the pictures of them doing Academy stuff so they can show their friends and family. 

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"What'd you do at work today, honey?"
"Oh, nothing really…"

I'm thinking that I could turn this into a nice little portfolio gig. Whether firefighters want posed shots, candid shots of them drilling or on the scene, or even just technically accurate images of their firehouse/apparatus, I can provide them with that. Additionally, it would allow everyone to enjoy themselves at banquets, graduations, retirement dinners, company barbecues, etc. without having to worry about who's taking pictures of it all (Hint: people REALLY love it when you have a slideshow running somewhere of pictures as you're taking them. Yes, it's possible; it actually works really well for wedding receptions.) 

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Recruit Class 358 around the 9/11 Memorial at the Newseum in Washington, D.C.

Photographer ride-alongs strike me as the most exciting possibility, because then it's just a fast-paced, "run-and-gun" scenario (thanks to David Hobby of Strobist for the terminology; as a former Baltimore Sun staff photog with an awesome website, he really knows his stuff). 

I suppose the only challenge now is contacting everyone with what I've been working on, and drumming up some business. So, readers, I entreat you: does this sound like something feasible? Leave some comments* if the idea strikes you as interesting, or if you have any suggestions for me!

/RL

* Seriously, what's with the lack of comments? Is everyone just here to shovel their faces with writing and skip out on the check? I know the posts aren't always great, but at least let me know what you think of 'em. Especially ones like this, where I'd really like to hear your input!

Details.

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A page from The Writer's Block, a cube-shaped book (get it?) 
full of random ideas to jump-start the creative half of your brain. 
I was flipping through it the other day and found this page.

"Paramedic Engine 15 and Ambulance 15, respond for the cardiac arrest…"


Dammit. I haven't even done the run sheet from the last call, I thought as I rose from my chair.

As we pulled up to the outside of a laundromat, a gathering crowd partially obscured our view. As best we could tell, there was one guy on the ground, and other kneeling next to him performing CPR. Sean hopped out and made his way over to the group while I grabbed the ALS bag and the monitor from the rear compartment. 

"Come on, move out of the way… move it!"

As I approached with gear in tow, I could hear a plea for the crowd to give us some space. The bystander who was doing CPR stood up, brushed his pants off, and started fumbling through his pockets for something as Sean did a quick assessment of our patient. 

As if in some surreal form of stereo, I suddenly had information coming from both sides that smashed together in my brain hard enough to stun me for a second.

CPR guy, right channel: "See, I did it right! I got my certifications right here, man!" He produced the fruits of his frantic pocket search, shoving a wallet-worn and very out-of-date American Red Cross CPR card in my face.

Sean, left channel: "Uh, this guy's got a pulse. And a good strong one, at that."

Um…

(#296 on my list of Things I Wish I Had Said to Bystanders: 

"Well then you, my good sir, did not pay enough attention in class.")

The ambulance was already there, and we scooped the patient up and loaded him into the back. He wasn't breathing enough on his own, so we assisted with ventilations until I could get an IV started. It appeared to be a pretty textbook narcotic overdose, so I grabbed the Narcan* and pushed it into the IV line. 

A moment later: [retch] "What the— where the hell am I?"

"You fell out, man. Looks like you took a little too much tonight, and you stopped breathing."

"That's bull, man. Why y'all lying to me? I'm a gangsta, son."

(#297: "You're right, sir. We must have put all these wires and tubes all over you by accident. Our apologies! Please continue with your recreational activities.")

This went on for a while. Ultimately, he refused all further care from us. We talked him down from just ripping all the stuff off himself, but he still wanted to leave the back of the ambulance as soon as possible. 

As he stepped out, he was heckled by his friends, who by now had formed into a small social gathering that smelled faintly of malt liquor. 

One of his more illustrious acquaintances, upon hearing repeated statements of how "gangsta" our patient thought himself, decided to show that she was considerably more so by pulling a large handful of bright yellow boxer shorts out above the waistline of her pants. 

"You ain't nothin', man. I got Spongebob-mothaf***in'-Squarepants. What you got, huh?!"

This may or may not have been the same person who was initially rubbing loose ice cubes on the patient's genitals shortly before we arrived on scene. (Some people think that the cold shock will wake up an overdose patient, but current trends in "D.C. bystander medicine" are best saved for another post. Two words to remember: dairy products.)

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The first time I flipped through that Writer's Block book, I must have been in middle or high school. I'm sure I saw the above page, but never ended up using it as a story idea. However, I sincerely believe that if I had followed the instructions at the time, it would have sounded nothing like what I've written in this blog to date. 

Imagination and creativity are one thing; documenting reality is entirely another. 

Oftentimes, I find the latter to be way more entertaining. 

WeLoveDC.com; publicity for RL!

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Tom Bridge, co-founder and author of WeLoveDC.com came across Raising Ladders the other day, and he liked it so much that he posted a brief write-up in the WLDC daily feed.

WeLoveDC.com is a collective blog written by a diverse population of authors who all have one thing in common: they are all enamored with Washington. Whether about politics (of course), food, culture, technology, or any other topic beneath the tip of the Monument, these authors have got it covered.

I honestly didn't expect such kind words, and for that I'm very grateful. Many thanks to Tom and the entire WLDC team!

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Last night 15 had a typical "no-sleep-due-to-a-call-every-forty-five-minutes" kinda night. I felt like a zombie this morning, which I've concluded is due to walking throughout a run-down four-building complex for an hour, forcing doors to try and turn off a malfunctioning fire alarm. 

Sure, I understand you don't want building occupants messing with the utility closets, which is why you've placed four different damned locks on the two doors that are barricading the one doorway. Okay, fine. We got through 'em anyways. 

Yawn. Let's pretend it's a forcible entry drill, reset the alarm, and get back to the firehouse already. 

Nope. 

3 a.m.: Respond for the "tummyache" (yes, that was actually the complaint).

4 a.m.: "I think there's a bug in my ear." (Actually, it was more like "AHH HOLY MOTHER OF [censored for the children] THERE'S A BUG IN MY EAR GETITOUT GETITOUT GETITOUT!")
Sigh… I don't suppose it'll even be worth it to try and sleep next tour. Friday night in Southeast? Not a chance.

I, however, wouldn't want it any other way. 

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Who knew a vinyl Halloween costume could mean something after so many years?

(I don't think I'll still be able to fit into it, though. I should probably stick to the gear I was issued. It seems… safer.)