When I started at Lookout Mountain Fire Department and later Idledale Rescue, almost all the services that did that work were volunteer. Like many volunteers, I fell backward into the job. The work is smelly, dirty, sometimes dangerous, and full of sudden calls, which wipe out planning the rest of one’s life. I loved it.
I wasn’t crazy about the drugs—the adrenaline, the dopamine, and the enzymes flooding my body when the calls came in on the black box in our living room. It was a piercing siren, followed by a series of yowls and a voice telling us what and where.
The work started because a neighbor on our road felt endangered.
The hideously ugly Teepees restaurant that used to be across old U.S. 40 from us. Circa 1955. Photo RoadsideArchitecture.com
All the men were away at work, and should a fire break out, there would be no one to fight it until a team ten miles away could come. In our unique climate, response time is vital. Why not take training on the truck so we could handle things until the regular force could get there?
The result was chaos. “Women on the fire department?” The year was 1972, and no female was even close to that bastion of rural male life. On the Run begins with that story and the result of my thirteen-year service. Today, seeing women in police, fire, and rescue services nationwide is commonplace. It’s nice to look back on how this happened.
I’ve read about emergency services in big cities, and my experience is far different. Most of our work is on the highways and in people’s homes. We’ve helped neighbors, their children, and teenagers. No matter what they show on TV, it’s always harder to treat friends. I’ve had to watch neighbors die.