If You Ask Me / By Martha Knight

Years ago volunteer fire departments were convivial. For some members the department was the center of their social life. A fire fighter’s spouse would be involved in the auxiliary.

All fire department volunteers had parade uniforms. Those outfits had to be kept ready, although they never went near a fire. It was important that each person be ready to march in a parade.

In some units I used to observe, there were as many past or honorary members as there were active fire fighters. They were encouraged to stay on the roster, even if they were retired, or no longer able for active fire fighting or helping with other emergencies. If they lived within driving distance they could at least show up for parades. Each man marching in the unit would count with the judges.

Parades weren’t just local, although all holidays and local celebrations were occasions for the fire department to show off its personpower and equipment. Back in the day there were volunteer fire department conventions.

Communities vied for the opportunity to host those conventions. They were newsworthy, and I would spend lots of time covering them, taking photos, finding out who had won each award for the year, which units or items in a parade were winners, what individuals were recognized at the banquet.

It seemed that some of the organizations crossed state lines, for I would be covering some convention in, say, Bolivar, and there would be units from Port Allegany and Smethport, for instance, there. I was newsing in western New York, but fire fighting was much the same there or in Pennsylvania.

Twice a day, morning and night, I would call Melba Nichols, who handled radio communications for a very wide area, summoning mutual aid and directing ambulance runs and keeping police departments coordinated and dispatched. I had two deadlines, 11 a.m. and 11 p.m., so prior to those I checked to see what accidents and fires had happened since my last check-in.

Melba knew, and could summarize each event succinctly, dispassionately. Often I would call for an additional fill-in from the chief of the primary fire department, or some other spokesman.

Oramel, N.Y., practically in the shadow of the giant trestle of the Erie Railroad, had an amazing fire department. It was a tiny hamlet, by then, but it had more equipment that would seem to be justified, and a roster that wouldn’t quit.

That was because the community had been all but wiped out by fire, twice. At one time Oramel had been the southern terminus of the Erie Canal. It had multiple churches and livery stables and stores and opera houses and rooming houses and private homes and other several houses of ill repute and side streets galore. After each major conflagration, recovery was partial but impressive. The canal stretched farther south, and Cuba and then Olean became important, and Oramel’s location ceased to be advantageous. Still it had a post office. Fire fighting was still a primal drive.

On one of the many occasions when my husband had responded to the peremptory summons to some event where they needed all the men there, in uniform, no matter what, even those who lived 20 or 30 miles away, I complained to my father-in-law (usually president or chief of the Oramel VFD), “Most of them aren’t even involved in fire fighting! It seems to me any old drunk who can get into uniform gets to pretend he’s a fire fighter so he can march in the parade.”

Straight-faced, dear Clarence Jewell considered this for a bit, then disagreed. “That’s not true. They don’t have to be old.” Of course that was true, since my husband and his teen-age brother had both been conscripted for parade duty that day.

Back in the day, there were beer tents at those conventions. Also, beer was to be had at local fire halls. There was gambling at some of them, not limited to fund-raising bingo. It was not unknown for there to be raids, and some of us recall that slot machines were found and confiscated at a fire department headquarters.

And there used to be Old Home Week, here, a week-long affair with parades nearly every day. School bands, drum and bugle corps, fire department personnel in parade uniform, equipment old and new but all buffed and gleaming, judges perched on a stand, floats, scouts, kiddies on decorated bikes and trikes. Carnival open and teeming, every day and night.

Times have changed. Tastes in entertainment are different. There are very few marching units of any kind prepared to put up entry fees and compete for prizes. There are far fewer people willing to put in the time practicing

The convivial atmosphere at fire halls is not what it was when there were kegs and games..

As valiant and skilled as fire fighters of “then” seemed to be, the training requirements are far greater now, with volunteers having to put in many hours qualifying and staying qualified. Some also spend the additional time to become trainers.

It has become harder and harder to recruit and retain active fire fighters. It’s hard work. It ties people down. These people put their lives on the line; they work in very uncomfortable conditions sometimes—notice how many fires happen in the middle of the night, and when it is freezing cold out there.

And then there are all the public relations appearances, and teaching fire safety. Plus fund raising, not yet unnecessary, with prices of fire trucks no longer in the tens, but now in the hundreds, of thousands.

In public presentations in 2011 the then president of PAFD declared, “The leadership of the Port Allegany Fire Department believes that funding the organization completely from tax revenue will effectively address [financial and other] issues while simultaneously lowering the over-all cost of fire protection.”

Obviously we’re not there yet, although tax support has been increased. For now, fundraising is necessary, because fire protection is necessary.

Peace.