Me, Bucky and a Standby Crew

Bishop Fire Dept had a well-established rule that rookies of 2 years or less could not ride on the first responding engine unless he was the third man. The logic being that the engineer had to run the pump upon arrival and if you were the only other first responder you should have more than 2 years experience and know what hose to deploy and how to do it effectively and safely.

This rule applied to both Standby Crews and a full response fire alarm. Let me explain the difference. 9 times out of 10 our pagers would go off and we would respond Code 3, full lights and siren, to the scene. Other times we would be asked to send a “standby crew”, which meant send one or 2 trucks to help out with a situation or to check out a situation further pending a full response. We would drive the speed limit and not use any lights or sirens to respond to a standby call. Examples of a standby crew call would be to help free a horse whose foot had gotten stuck inside a cattle gate, or maybe to a small brush fire the size of a bathroom that had no chance of spreading.

This particular day in 1985 our pagers went off, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, please send a standby crew to the 2900 block of Mesquite Drive to check a report of an electrical smell”. I responded, as did others, to Station 1 and Jeff “Bucky” Stewart was firing up Engine 10. Bucky was always excitable and did all but order me into Engine 10. He wanted to get going and didn’t want to wait. I reminded him that I was a rookie and shouldn’t respond in Engine 10, to which he replied, “it’s only a standby call…get in”.

We headed west on W. Line Street and less than a block later our pagers went off again. “Attention Bishop Volunteers, callers report a heavy electrical smell.” We continued on and once more our pagers went off 2 blocks later, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, we now have a report of smoke coming from electrical sockets”. As we debated whether we should hit the lights and siren our pagers went off a third time in less than 5 blocks, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, this is now a possible structure fire”.

By this time I realized someone was going to have a word with me about why I was on Engine 10 as a rookie. I was getting more nervous and our pagers went off one last time, Attention Bishop Volunteers, attention Bishop Volunteers, we have a fully involved structure fire, please respond full Code”.

We were at the intersection of W. Line and Home Street, a distance of only 7 blocks from the firehouse and this call had escalated from a standby call to a fully involved structure fire. Amazing! I looked at Bucky and wondered what he had gotten me into.

We arrived on scene to find the fire was contained in the garage, but it was ‘burning good” as we used to say. As Bucky put the PTO in gear and started the pump I pulled the 1 ½" line off the middle compartment and stretched it toward the garage. We carried about 400 gallons, our pump at full capacity would deliver 150 gallons per minutes; so that meant that I had just under 3 minutes to get a handle on this fire all the time praying that Engine 4 would be right behind us.

Well, we did a good job that day. We managed to knock the fire down enough for Engine 4 to come in and complete the mop up with its payload. The assistant Fire Chief, Stan Lloyd came up to me and complimented my efforts, turned to walk away and then paused. He looked up and said don’t get yourself in that situation again, Perkins.

Alessandra – Seldom at a loss for words

I have a couple of stories that will illustrate Alessandra’s vocal skills. Not only can she talk a lot, but she can “say the darndest things”.

1. Until she entered Kindergarten she spent much of her days at “Mama Gail’s”, which was at Gail Paul’s, her babysitter. It seemed like so much happened during those short hours that during the 7 minute drive home she would just talk my ear off. If she got done with her stories before we got home then she’d just start back at the beginning and go through them again.

One particular day, when she was about 3, my mind was mulling over a technical problem at work and I just wasn’t up for any noise beyond what was already going on in my head. As she began a rerun of story she’d just finished, I stopped her rather abruptly. “Ali”, I said “you’ve gotta stop talking, I need to think”. There was a brief silence until I glanced over at her and noticed she was quite upset. She looked at me through her glistening eyes and quietly said, ‘I just don’t know how to stop”.

2. In the mid 90s we got our first cellular phone. It was that ever-popular Motorola flip phone that weighed about 2.5 pounds. One day when she was 3 years old we let her place a call to one of Melodie’s friends. They talked for just a few minutes and then she hung up. She handed her mom the phone back and with no emotion whatsoever said, ‘hmm, now I know how to use a cell phone”, as if it was on a “to do’ list to be checked off.

3. About this same time we were driving in my pickup on North Main Street in Bishop. A 60s era Chevy El Camino passed us on the roadway. She exclaimed, “Hey Dad….look at that thing. It’s not really a car and it’s not really a truck. What’s the point?” I looked at her and in all the seriousness I could muster simply uttered back. “That’s a question that no one is able to answer.”

Oops….gotta run, Ali’s calling on the phone.

Who’s Gonna Kick Daddy’s Butt?

When I joined the fire department in 1984, they gave me a BFD ball cap and a badge. Eventually I was given a white uniform shirt with Bishop Fire Department and American flag patches, etc. This shirt along with a clean pair of Wranglers and cowboy boots combined to make our “dress uniform”. Why we had a dress uniform is beyond me. We seldom wore them except during Fire Prevention Week each October, at parades and solemnly at funerals.

Regardless of the reason I had one, I was very proud of it. It was a source of much pride and unfortunately, in my case, much trouble.

The story begins in January of 1988. It had been a cold, snowy day in Bishop and when we all got home from work and school it was decided that we would go get some dinner. The four of us (pre Alessandra) all piled into our 1986 Nissan Sentra and headed through the dark of the night to El Charro Avitia on North Main St. We liked going to this place because Melodie knew the owner and half the time he’d walk by us and take our bill from us before we could pay it.

While driving there, a large Ford truck turned into the lane next to me and nearly cut me off. When the driver saw how close it was he made a pivotal decision. Rather than slow down and come in the lane behind me, the driver gunned it and whipped in front of me, fishtailing as he did so. This only served to further fuel the ire that had welled up almost instantly.

The actions of the driver caused me to presume it was a 17 year old local boy with no common sense and I began the chase. I pulled up along side of him just to see what this idiot looked like. Without any thought to the matter and certainly no thought to the potential outcome I whipped out my fire department badge and flashed it at the driver. After all, this kid wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between my badge and a cop’s badge. He needed to learn a lesson and I, in my wisdom, had appointed myself the teacher.

As the badge was flashed I realized this wasn’t a kid at all, it was an adult. By the look on his face I could tell he had taken notice. Well….it didn’t matter; even adults, lousy driving adults, could use a scare now and then.

I pulled ahead and by this time had passed my destination. Chips and Salsa were calling and I wasn’t going to waste any more time with this guy. I pulled into the Copeland Lumber parking lot so that I could turn south on Main St and back to dinner. I look in the mirror…geez this guy pulls in behind me and by now I can tell he’s a big dude.

I’m already getting looks from Melodie for flashing the badge, but I take off anyway and head south, but this guy follows me South on Main St. Now I don’t want to give you the wrong impression of my wife, because she is awesome in every situation. However, the first words out her mouth are, “he’s gonna kick your butt.” She repeated this several times as I headed south.

Cara and Charlotte unbuckle themselves and start defrosting the rear window with the sleeves of their jackets, all the time 5 year old Cara is asking, “who’s gonna kick daddy’s butt…who’s gonna kick daddy’s butt?” I tell the girls to sit back down and put their belts on. They do so as Cara asks again, "but who's gonna kick your butt daddy?".

By this time I decide that if that is going to happen it’s going to be at the police station. I drive there and park on the side of the station, all the while I was pretending I never saw this guy following me.

With all the confidence that Melodie had recently instilled in me I stepped from the car only to find he had parked behind me and was exiting his truck too. This guy was huge, probably 6 inches and 100 pounds bigger than me. He called out, “hey, I wanna talk to you”. I looked up and feigned that I was surprised to see him. He continued, “man I owe you an apology…I’m a retired state police from Nevada and I was way out of line back there. I was trying to get your attention, didn’t you see me?” I answered that I hadn’t seen him behind me at all.

After a few minutes of his apologizing and my accepting of his apology, he asked, “so what were you doing here?” Once again, quick on my feet, I declared, “this is the police station; I was going in to file a report.” Of course we agreed that there was no reason to do so.

After about 5 minutes of visiting by the hood of his truck we shook hands and departed company. The whole time the occupants of my car were staring through the rear window at the exchange we were having. I entered the car to Melodie’s silence. Finally she broke it, “what happened”, she asked? I thought for a moment and said, “I gave him a warning.”

From that moment on my fire department badge went on a long sabbatical, only returning to my possession in time to wear it to a funeral of longtime firefighter and friend of the department, Bobby Richards.

Another Face to Face Encounter with a CHiP

** Be warned. This story will make no sense if you read it before you read the post below. Proceed at your own puzzlement **

So one afternoon, about 2 years after the day I said NO to the CHiP officer I was traveling in my silver Nissan pickup eastbound on W. Line St. Alessandra was in the pickup with me, probably in her car seat, and undoubtedly talking. This talking may have been the root of the problem because where the speed limit lowers drastically from 45 to 35 and then quickly to 25 I was not paying attention to my speed. This implies that I was paying attention to Alessandra’s stories, but that may not be true either. I digress.

Somewhere between the 45 mph zone and the 25 mph zone I was traveling about 35 mph, or possibly more. Next thing I know lights are flashing behind me and I am pulled over between See Vee Lane and Sunland Ave. It’s the California Highway Patrol.

Interestingly he pulled in front and then walked back towards where I was stopped. I recognized him immediately. It was THAT officer. I braced myself for the worst. I knew this was going to be costly.

He approached my window and we exchanged all the obligatory documents and he stepped back to his car and presumably “ran my plates”. As he walked back towards the truck he noticed the red and white “Fire Dept.” reflective sticker mounted above my license plate and took silent notice of it. I must have come back clean because he gave me a warning to “keep your speed down”, and he sent me on my way.

I was stunned. I expected to be cuffed and stuffed, leaving Ali on the side of the road to walk home or something. Nonetheless, with warning in hand, I watched him walk back to his car to leave so that he could ruin someone else’s day.

He got about 30 feet from me and stopped in his tracks. He raised his right hand to the side of his head and snapped his fingers together as the light bulb when off. With the precision of an Nazi SS officer, he turned sharply around on his right toe and with reddened face marched quickly back to my window.

“Oh crap, here we go”, I thought. He arrived at my window and stuck his right pointer in my face and said, “You’re that firefighter from Collins Road aren’t you?” I said “yes” and braced for the onslaught. He was speechless. He was so red in the face he just stood there for about 30 seconds and couldn’t utter a word. Realizing he had already given me a warning he resorted to pointing to me once again and saying, “I’ve got my eyes on you Perkins.” With that he marched back to his vehicle and departed.

How I escaped that, I’ll never know. After he drove off, I took one look at Ali and she continued with her story.

The Day I said “NO” to the California Highway Patrol

In the summer of 1992, we received a call for extrication. “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, we need an extrication crew and fire response on Hwy 395, South of Warm Springs Road, Please respond.”

Extrications always added a greater sense of urgency. There was at least one victim trapped and at any car accident there was always a chance the fuel was leaking and could catch fire. That is not a good combination when someone is trapped.

I arrived at Station 1 and was the 3rd or 4th in the door. Engine 10, our quick response truck, was already warming up and was close to responding. I got into my turnouts and grabbed my coat and helmet. I jumped into the driver’s seat of Engine 5 and fired her up. This was our rescue rig and it carried all the equipment needed to complete the extrication. Another firefighter climbed into the passenger seat and when the back compartment had 3 more men, I hit the air horn and headed out south of town.

We arrived on scene and found there was a victim trapped in a car that was badly mangled and resting in the dirt meridian of 395, the major (translated to “only”) artery through the area. Traffic was all but stopped as they were rerouting it onto the dirt shoulder. The fire equipment, my truck included, was in the paved lane closest to the meridian.

After about 25 minutes of work we were making great progress to get the victim out of the damaged vehicle. It was then that a particular California Highway Patrolman came up to me and asked if I was in charge of “that rig”, as he pointed to Engine 5. I looked up and said, “yes, that’s my truck.” He responded by saying, “Great, I want you to move it to the other side of the roadway so we can get this traffic moving.” Now, keep in mind I still had men working to return equipment back on Engine 5. If I moved it then my men would have been crossing 2 lanes of traffic to accomplish the task and I didn’t feel it was a safe thing to do.

I looked back at him and said, “No”. Needless to say he was caught off guard and said, “what did you say?” I replied, “I’m not moving that truck.” He quickly retorted, “you’ll do as I say’, to which I replied. “See that man over there in the white helmet….Well that is the Fire Chief and I work for him. I’m not moving this truck.”

Completely steamed he marched off to have a word with Chief Phil Moxley. After 3 or 4 minutes of what seemed to be a disagreement, the officer stormed off in another direction.

A few minutes later the Fire Chief motioned me over. “Perkins” he said, “did you refuse to move Engine 5?” I responded, “sure did.’ To which he replied. “Good job…wait about 10 minutes and move the truck on the other side of the road.”

Stay tuned for my next post regarding another interaction with this same officer years later.

First Fire Response

I thought I should tell the story of the very first fire call that I ever responded to. I joined the fire dept in the summer of 1984. Because of insurance, etc I could not respond until after the 1st of July when the insurance would kick in.

Fortunately this was “fireworks” season. Fireworks were and are illegal in California. I don’t know how the law reads today but then it read something like “if it explodes, leaves the ground or flies through the air, it is illegal”. Well, we had an Indian reservation next door to the city limits and the sale of this contraband went forward without a hiccup.

On the 2nd of July 1984, my pager went off, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, we have a report of a tree on fire on the 1500 block of Lazy A Drive, please respond.”

I was working in my retail store The Phone Booth at the time and before the firehouse siren sounded I was out the door and making my way through the back door of Bishop Rexall Drugstore. This would give me access to Main Street and a clear shot through the parking lot of Joseph’s Bi-Rite Market directly to the side entrance of the firehouse. As I ran the final 50 yards or so, I already had my door keys in hand.

As I entered the firehouse I could see that Engine 3 was waiting for a full compliment of firefighters to show so I kicked off my shoes and worked my way into my ‘turnouts”. Turnouts were assigned to each person so that we could jump in them, pull the pants up, buckle them and then slide under the red suspenders. I put on my turnout coat and grabbed my helmet. It had “Perkins” stenciled on the back and I couldn’t wait to put it on.

By the time I reached Engine 3 the cab was full and there was only one man on the tailboard so I joined him. Back then we could actually ride the tailboard on the back of the truck, strapped in and safe, but riding on the back of the Engine. That was the most fun, unless it was raining or snowing. This particular day was warm and we hit the siren and turned east on Line St towards the intersection of Line & Main St. Turning north we picked up our speed until we were about 40 mph on Main St. Sirens and air horns blaring I was having the experience I had dreamed of since the early 60s and my trusty Schwinn Stingray.

As we round the corner near “the Y”, my tailboard partner, Mike Holland turn to me and said. “Hey Steve, I know you’re having the time of your life, but you’ve gotta wipe that smile off your face. I’m not sure the locals want their firemen smiling that much when something is burning.”

Well, I wiped it off, but I must say I enjoyed that response and each one after that. There was an unofficial motto that we had in the fire service. It went something like this, “We don’t want your house to catch fire, because that would be a tragedy, but if it does….I’m gonna enjoy trying to put it out.”

A Snake and a Worm

Well... before I begin this story I need to give some background. From 1986 to 1996 I worked at Mammoth Mountain Ski Area, a period of time that brings many memories to mind. In those early days the company provided a couple of 15-passenger vans that went from Bishop up to the resort, a distance of about 47 miles. This “carpool” became an interesting part of our day, filled with many characters and even more ridiculous experiences.

For some reason during this period many nicknames were handed out. Names such as Eric Bocanegra became simply “Broken Eggroll” and Don Brickell became “the Brick”. I know this may surprise you but my nickname was “Workin’ Perkins”, presumably for the number of long days I worked without taking time off. (Heck I was younger those days and had a young and growing family, OT was always welcomed.) Anyway, on the van was a guy named Joe Parsley, who became known as “Snake”. Snake often talked about his son Clint and it didn’t take long for us to start referring to Clint as “The Worm”.

Now that is all set up, here is the important story. Clint was Charlotte’s age and went to the same school. When Charlotte was in 4th grade there was a particular boy who picked on her. You know, took her books, kicked her, hit her in the lunch line, etc. I did all I could to contact the school and complain but there was never any resolution. It went on for many weeks.

One day while talking to the Snake I asked him if would have the Worm talk to this one boy, explaining that he was Charlotte’s friend and she shouldn't be picked on…..and that no girls should be hit for that matter. Snake went home to ask the Worm to step in.

The next day the Snake sat next to me on the van. I said, “So, how did it go?” The Snake said that the Worm had agreed to take care of the problem but that Snake was to deliver a message to me. I looked at Snake quizzically. “The Worm told me he’d take care of it but if he had to throw a punch it was gonna to cost Perkins 10 bucks”.

Problem resolved. 10 bucks was never paid to the Worm.