Enjoy!
___________________________________________________
Firemen Ring Out The Night
By Garik Charneco
Firemen Ring Out The Night
By Garik Charneco
Dear Editor O' Lalan:
Well, I have done it! I decided to "Not take it anymore!" I decided to remain patient no longer.
Oh, I had said these statements before. I will not lie. I often said them to the TV screen or the headlines of your very paper, but, I have now actually done it. I felt empowered after doing it. After taking this stand. Imagine voting, but with your lungs and not with a piece of paper.
I live on Dakota Avenue, right across from the Ward 3 fire station. I closed on this house forty years ago with my wife. We raised a single daughter here and now she lives in Milwaukee working at an art museum. I buried my wife from here three years ago. Well, not literally with something like an extra long steam shovel! And the school district and four different baby sitters had something to do with raising our daughter.
I am used to the noise of the fire station. My family made peace with its blaring cadence at the earliest moment. Every time before the firemen head out, a woman's voice blares from the PA. Her voice comes across muffled and nondescript like the voices of adults on the Peanuts cartoons my daughter used to watch. Her warnings bounce off the cement walls of the garage bay and come in through the living room windows.
"WUUUUUPPPP.....West Neeeintth.....akkkkkkk......truooookkkkk......kiiiiii.....WHAAAPP!"
After that comes the familiar truck and fanfare. When my daughter was younger, I secretly wished for a son that might better appreciate the trucks and tools. The whimsy waned on her as soon as she turned eight.
I did not hope to criticize firefighters. As I prepared this letter, I realized how unwise that proved today. But, I had to do something and I did it!
Neighbors will know what is next to the Ward 3 fire station. Bowden's Bar and Fan Tavern are next to the station and diagonally from my home. Why these bars have not merged into one watering hole escapes me, but I never adjusted to their cadence. It is too sporadic, fueled by different mixers and metabolisms. I have written about them before and even spoke to Mr. Bowden briefly, but I later heard he moved and left the business to his son. Screams, hollers, and the crackling of broken glass often rise up each Friday night. My wife and I made use of ear plugs and my daughter seemed to not be bothered. We made sure to keep her room as far back from Dakota Avenue so that her window overlooks our yard.
Recently, the fire station's and bar's soundtracks mixed. The firemen often spend summer nights on the driveway of their station in lounge chairs. They do not do much except sit. One sometimes reads a newspaper or paperback novel. One night they brought up a ping-pong table and exchanged volleys waiting for the alarm. This does not bother me as they would probably be doing the same thins indoor during the winter months.
But the bar patrons often approach the firemen. Particularly young ladies that like to scream out phrases like "Hooray for firemen!" or "You guys are so much cooler that those cops." Many stumbling patrons like to task the firemen to take their pictures. The men twist their hands into symbols and jut out their arms. The women strike a pose and hold their arms out the side or rest their heads on the firemen's shoulders. A bachelorette party once waltzed by the station and they made the firemen hold an inflated rubber penis while they did cartwheels on the station's lawn. The firemen clicked away with borrowed cameras and the one with the inflatable penis playful walloped his coworkers.
I do not think this would happen indoors. And why are the firemen encouraging such debauchery instead of turning the revelers away? Isn't this the kind of behavior that leaves a hot plate on the kitchen counter or knocks over an idle candle?
As I have mentioned already, I took a stance. On the night of the bachelorette party incident I sat on my porch. Through the cartwheels and screams I ducked down by the veranda and screamed out, "Hey! Are my taxes paying for this!?"
I did not notice any reaction, because I immediately scrambled back into the house. My knees still ache and I have yet to repair the door where the palm of my hand pulled the screen from the aluminum frame. Maybe this letter will bring something of it. A comment from a supervisor or remark from the fire fighter's union. I doubt the revelers will remark since they probably do not live in the city.
I suggest that all residents should try it out! The brick apartments across from city hall could become a new loud speaker for citizen's action. The bicycle shop could rent out a front window and a bullhorn allowing people to scream out "What will you do about county assessments!" or "Please lower the sales tax! The civic center is complete!"
It feels wonderful!
Sincerely,
Edward Meadows
214 Dakota Avenue
Peace!
Well, I have done it! I decided to "Not take it anymore!" I decided to remain patient no longer.
Oh, I had said these statements before. I will not lie. I often said them to the TV screen or the headlines of your very paper, but, I have now actually done it. I felt empowered after doing it. After taking this stand. Imagine voting, but with your lungs and not with a piece of paper.
I live on Dakota Avenue, right across from the Ward 3 fire station. I closed on this house forty years ago with my wife. We raised a single daughter here and now she lives in Milwaukee working at an art museum. I buried my wife from here three years ago. Well, not literally with something like an extra long steam shovel! And the school district and four different baby sitters had something to do with raising our daughter.
I am used to the noise of the fire station. My family made peace with its blaring cadence at the earliest moment. Every time before the firemen head out, a woman's voice blares from the PA. Her voice comes across muffled and nondescript like the voices of adults on the Peanuts cartoons my daughter used to watch. Her warnings bounce off the cement walls of the garage bay and come in through the living room windows.
"WUUUUUPPPP.....West Neeeintth.....akkkkkkk......truooookkkkk......kiiiiii.....WHAAAPP!"
After that comes the familiar truck and fanfare. When my daughter was younger, I secretly wished for a son that might better appreciate the trucks and tools. The whimsy waned on her as soon as she turned eight.
I did not hope to criticize firefighters. As I prepared this letter, I realized how unwise that proved today. But, I had to do something and I did it!
Neighbors will know what is next to the Ward 3 fire station. Bowden's Bar and Fan Tavern are next to the station and diagonally from my home. Why these bars have not merged into one watering hole escapes me, but I never adjusted to their cadence. It is too sporadic, fueled by different mixers and metabolisms. I have written about them before and even spoke to Mr. Bowden briefly, but I later heard he moved and left the business to his son. Screams, hollers, and the crackling of broken glass often rise up each Friday night. My wife and I made use of ear plugs and my daughter seemed to not be bothered. We made sure to keep her room as far back from Dakota Avenue so that her window overlooks our yard.
Recently, the fire station's and bar's soundtracks mixed. The firemen often spend summer nights on the driveway of their station in lounge chairs. They do not do much except sit. One sometimes reads a newspaper or paperback novel. One night they brought up a ping-pong table and exchanged volleys waiting for the alarm. This does not bother me as they would probably be doing the same thins indoor during the winter months.
But the bar patrons often approach the firemen. Particularly young ladies that like to scream out phrases like "Hooray for firemen!" or "You guys are so much cooler that those cops." Many stumbling patrons like to task the firemen to take their pictures. The men twist their hands into symbols and jut out their arms. The women strike a pose and hold their arms out the side or rest their heads on the firemen's shoulders. A bachelorette party once waltzed by the station and they made the firemen hold an inflated rubber penis while they did cartwheels on the station's lawn. The firemen clicked away with borrowed cameras and the one with the inflatable penis playful walloped his coworkers.
I do not think this would happen indoors. And why are the firemen encouraging such debauchery instead of turning the revelers away? Isn't this the kind of behavior that leaves a hot plate on the kitchen counter or knocks over an idle candle?
As I have mentioned already, I took a stance. On the night of the bachelorette party incident I sat on my porch. Through the cartwheels and screams I ducked down by the veranda and screamed out, "Hey! Are my taxes paying for this!?"
I did not notice any reaction, because I immediately scrambled back into the house. My knees still ache and I have yet to repair the door where the palm of my hand pulled the screen from the aluminum frame. Maybe this letter will bring something of it. A comment from a supervisor or remark from the fire fighter's union. I doubt the revelers will remark since they probably do not live in the city.
I suggest that all residents should try it out! The brick apartments across from city hall could become a new loud speaker for citizen's action. The bicycle shop could rent out a front window and a bullhorn allowing people to scream out "What will you do about county assessments!" or "Please lower the sales tax! The civic center is complete!"
It feels wonderful!
Sincerely,
Edward Meadows
214 Dakota Avenue
_______________________________________________
Peace!
No comments:
Post a Comment