Showing posts with label fire safety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fire safety. Show all posts

R.I.P. Firefighter / Dispatcher Mitch Fiandt, a friend

 A week ago I wrote here that Mitch Fiandt was fighting cancer, and now he's gone.

Just like that.

That's Mitch on the left, still in his dispatch uniform pants. Yeah, that's me on the right. We were so young.

 

I've had so many friends fight and beat cancer, at least for awhile, that it never occurred to me he wouldn't. But Mitch died just short of fifty years as a volunteer firefighter, having started at Orange Township Fire before he was even eighteen, back in the days when you could do that kind of thing. Cancer takes a lot of firefighters, especially the ones were around in the days when breathing protection was a mild suggestion. He told me once he breathed in some particularly bad stuff off the hot side of a burning house, back before he moved to Albion and joined our Department.

That old lung damage was one reason why he usually drove the fire trucks and ran the pump, rather than going inside--not that I didn't see him go in, more than once. And yet, when we had our annual lung capacity test, he always passed and usually ran circles around the rest of us.

There's not much I can say that isn't in his obituary, here:

https://www.harperfuneralhomes.com/obituary/Mitch-Fiandt?fbclid

 

If memory serves, in addition to being the Albion Fire Department Chief Engineer--a kind of honorary title acknowledging the fact that if we needed an apparatus operator, he was there--he also served as Secretary and Treasurer on the AFD.

He was also my boss for several years in Noble County Communications, or the 911 Center, or Dispatch, or whatever people will call it next year. He was there for 35 years, which did not bode well for his sanity, and was 911 Director from 1999 until he retired in 2015.

Here Mitch and John Urso, also a combo firefighter/dispatch, present me my 25 year dispatcher award, along with a certificate for a free psychotherapy session.

Mitch and I both served at various times on the Albion Town Council and the Albion Plan Commission, and he was in about a hundred other things as well, being the type who was always helping out. Even with my writing gig, he stayed busier than me. He was the first to tell me I should write a book about dispatching, which I will, as soon as the statue of limitations runs out.


The last time I saw him was at my grandmother's funeral: He had a part time gig with Harper's Funeral Home here in Albion. I don't believe he ever had a job or hobby that wasn't, in one way or another, about helping people.

And if that it's the best thing you can say about a person, I don't know what is.







Give a Smoke Detector a Job

 The theme for this year's Fire Prevention Weeks is "Smoke alarms: Make them work for you". Which sound like a great idea, but then you have to pay them, and send W-2 forms, and it would mess up your taxes ...

In any case, here's the link to the National Fire Prevention Association's info on the subject:

https://www.nfpa.org/events/fire-prevention-week

  During my four decades in the emergency services, I never heard anyone complain that their smoke detectors worked properly. Well, okay, once—but that guy was an arsonist.
Fire Prevention Week this year is October 6-12, mostly because nothing else goes on in mid-October. No, actually it was because the Great Chicago Fire happened on October 9, 1871. That fire destroyed more than 17,400 structures and killed at least 250 people, and might have been prevented if Mrs. O’Leary had installed a smoke detector in her barn. Have you ever seen a cow remove a smoke detector battery? Me neither.
Nobody really knows what started the Great Chicago Fire, so the dairy industry has a real beef with blaming the cow, which legend says knocked over a lamp. Does the lamp industry ever get the blame? Noooo....
Cow or lamp? Trick question: It's a training session, so firefighters.

 
At about the same time the Peshtigo Fire burned across Wisconsin, killing 1,152 people and burning 16 entire towns. Several fires burned across Michigan and Wisconsin at the time, causing some to speculate that a meteor shower might have caused the conflagration. There may have been shooting stars elsewhere, but Chicago got all the press.
This year’s Fire Prevention Week theme is "Smoke alarms: Make them work for you!" It's not like they're going to be busy elsewhere.
Just as you should change your smoke detector batteries every fall and spring, you should replace your smoke alarm every ten years. Doing the same to your carbon monoxide detector is a great idea, so it can make a sound to warn about the gas that never makes a sound.
This is great advice, and as I hadn’t given much thought to the age of my own smoke detectors, I took it. The one in the basement stairway said: “Manufactured 1888 by the Tesla Fire Alarm Co.”
Not a good sign.
The one in the kitchen hallway said simply: “Smoke alarm. Patent pending.”
Oh boy.
So check them. Do it right now, so they're working for you. I know it doesn’t have quite the pizzazz of the 1942 Fire Prevention Week theme: “Every Fire Helps Hitler”.
But hey … you can’t blame the Nazis for everything.



 

 

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Old Firefighters Never Die: They Just Smolder

 So, I'm retiring. Not from my full time job of dispatching to become a Gentleman Author, as I wanted. (It's like a Gentleman Farmer, a rich person who just farms as a hobby. No real farmer is a Gentleman Farmer, especially considering their ungentlemanly language while going through bills.)

At my full time job we got an email pointing out, now that one of the Sheriff Department detectives has retired, I have the most seniority of anyone there or in dispatch. By six years. Maybe in the entire Noble County Government, although I'm not motivated to find out.

Nor will I retire from writing, until they pry my fingers from the keyboard. Maybe not even then, if I can manage text to speech. No, I'm retiring from what I've done longest (other than biological functions) in my adult life: firefighting.

 That's Phil Jacob standing beside me, holding his pin for being a firefighter for 55 (!) years. I remain unconvinced Phil will ever retire. In fact, I should put off working on my Haunted Noble County book, because fifty years from now he'll be haunting the Albion firehouse. When I look at him (or Tom Lock, who joined up six months before I did), I realize I'd never have the most seniority on the Albion Fire Department.

I don't know how they do it. I beat my body down too badly. After working a fire, I'd be in so much pain I couldn't function for days. My back pain goes all the way back to back to back fires way back in the 80s, where I wore a steel air tank for longer than even a young pup should. It got progressively worse, and I slowly realized over the last few years that I was threatening to become another victim to treat at an emergency scene, instead of contributing.

The tanks are a lot lighter now, but I'm a lot heavier. And I have less hair.

 

In the last year I developed shoulder problems. Recently my knees started acting up, in a temper tantrum kind of way. (And they make strange noises.) I've got arthritis in my big toe, for crying out loud. Ever since Covid, it's been all I can do to get through a day without falling asleep on the couch. Okay, maybe six decades of living has more to do with that than Covid.

I'm not complaining so much as explaining. I loved firefighting. The guys and gals who volunteer at the AFD, and our neighboring departments, are my brothers and sisters--they're family. But I couldn't even go to the station much, especially between those murderous 12-hour night shifts in dispatch that wouldn't happen if I was a gentleman author.


But I put it off. I didn't want to admit I can't do something I used to be able to do. When I finally told my wife I was pulling the plug, she wasn't a bit surprised. Most likely no one was.

So I wrote the membership a letter, and a few weeks later, when we walked into the annual AFD Appreciation Dinner, I saw my name tag and a helmet with my number on it. It was real. I had by then reached the depression stage of grief. I'll let you know when the acceptance stage arrives.

Here's Brian Tigner, a hard worker for the AFD, giving me my stuff and telling me they'd just as soon I left through the back door. Kidding! The reconditioned barn where we had dinner was awesome.

Wow, this turned out to be more of a downer than I'd planned. It's not all bad: I'll stay on as an honorary member, doing the Facebook page, taking pictures, doing public information stuff, and so on. I'm also halfway done with that new AFD book, which keeps getting put on the back burner for one reason after another. But I'm thinking of going to this year's Fish Fry as a diner instead of a server ... that concrete floor is hell on my back.

I look good in red flannel. I do, TOO.

 

To this day, I don't know how I worked up the courage to walk into that firehouse door on my eighteenth birthday. Me, the shy, antisocial introvert with no interest in being on a team--except this one. Every time I headed up to the station, I stepped outside my comfort zone. If I hadn't I'd have missed most of the events of my life, and I wonder then if I would have ever had anything to write about.

And for every bad thing I experienced, there were a dozen great things.

Forty-three years. I'll carry them forever ... in a good way.

 

 

Remember: If you send a book to every retired person you know, they might not complain that you never come to see them.