Welcome to the fire department, kid
A little background is in order. I grew up in the late 1950s in a South Sutter County farming community called Pleasant Grove. I went to the grammar school there, moved on to attend East Nicolaus High and eventually Chico State with a degree in agricultural business.
My first love was, is, and always will be firefighting even though I'm retired now. My wife kind of understands but requested the scanner stay in the garage.
The Pleasant Grove community had no fire department and in the 1960s was still dependent on a one-0man volunteer rig that was stationed at Johnny Wise's general store in East Nicolaus some 10 to 15 minute drive away on a good day. Johnny had to close the doors of his general store, rely on the honesty of anyone still shopping, and jump on the rig just to get the process started. He would rely on any community member available to lend a hand once he arrived, if there was anything left to save.
One mid-summer day Johnny responded to a grass fire along Highway 70 and as he was putting it out, an inattentive driver slammed into the back of that rig and it was destroyed. And with this accident, there was no longer any fire service in the southern end of Sutter County. The community members of Pleasant Grove were not pleased; they petitioned the board of supervisors, donated land, time, effort, and money and with the help of a conscripted crew from the Yuba City jail built the three-stall cinder block building that still stands today.
The equipment was all hand-me-down and all past its prime but we didn't care. We had our own fire department. Every
first and third Tuesday evening most of the folk could be found training on something at the station. Even though I was too young (sans drivers license, therefore unable to drive to any emergency and never mind I was in school) I could be found there with dad.
I was a station rat. I'd do whatever was asked of me just biding my time waiting to turn 16 with a driver's license in my hand. When that day hit (March 6, 1965) I was in!
Because our home was approximately one quarter mile from the station, in the summer it was not at all uncommon to find me behind the wheel, window down, elbow on the sill driving Code 3 hoping against hope that some girl would see me. Once at scene I would be joined by whoever could get off their tractor and join me. I was
a driver/operator before I even knew they existed. Life was good.
One of the rigs we had was an old water wagon (we call them water tenders now). It had a thousand gallon water tank mounted on an old Dodge truck chassis. (There were no hydrants so we had to bring the water we might need with us or we got very good at drafting out of irrigation canals.) With all the years of use and rust catching up that old tank developed pinhole leaks just about everywhere and it was decided that something must be done to make it last.
A plan was hatched. To prep for the work to be performed the truck was taken out of service, the tank was drained and then allowed to dry out. After our next Tuesday evening drill my dad, who was assistant chief, and Norm
James, a captain and I drove it over to our shop. There several gallons of tar awaited our arrival. Because I was a scrawny kid, my job was to shimmy down the top loading shoot, into the tank and roll the tar on the inside walls of the tank. What could possibly go wrong. (Today this is referred to as a confined space and a really dumb idea.)
After a few minutes I can't remember anything but I was told that I was very loudly singing any popular rock song of the day with somewhat questionable lyrics made up by me. Not sure how they got me out because they couldn't get in. Fortunately I didn't pass out. So, how does dad keep from being lectured by mom? “What were you thinking?”
A fan was found in the shop and placed in front of me. Coffee was brewed and administered to sober me up, I was left to recover on my own in the barn while they took the unfinished job back to the station and, I'm convinced, to get their story straight.
The next day was a school day and I had one hell of a headache. The job was eventually completed by someone other than me with oxygen flowing from a cutting torch tank hose because we didn't have small backpack compressed air tanks back then.
Because of the work done that old truck served the community for years to come and I earned the right to be called a fireman because of my work ethic. That little episode made me a brother with the men and I was in for 44 more years retiring in 2009 with the City of Chico Fire Department. And mom? She never found out until years later when it was accidentally mentioned.