For many years since my retirement from the Fire Department in
1996, I've been fortunate to be part of a large group of retired firefighters
that gather each quarter for breakfast in Des Plaines, IL. It's a family style serving, in a separate
meeting room in a local restaurant, with seating arranged in a large square
accommodating approximately 30 or so retired firefighters. One of the former
Fire Chief's took it upon himself to launch the now regularly scheduled
meeting, and continues to make arrangements with the restaurant and collect a
ten spot from each of us each meeting.
The ages predictably range from the newly retired in their early
50's in some cases, to older retirees now in their 80's, and even though
individual exteriors may have fattened and grayed in most cases, the old
pecking orders remain firmly in place. The old timers still display a penchant
for zeroing in on an individuals' most vulnerable shortcomings as a source for
ridicule and taunting but now -- years removed from the familiar gatherings
around the firehouse kitchen table -- each jab and poke is accepted. But now they are not just
tolerated but relished and valued as a warm reminder of earlier days and as a
gift from the past.
Dozens of old men, now seasoned even more in either retirement or
second careers, with cellphones full of photos of grandchildren and even great
grandchildren, at times fall into a normal exchange of conversations sharing
sources of senior discounts and comparing surgical scars as would any similarly
aged retired group. For this group, however, there's a magical element of time
travel that underlies the gathering.
Even after decades of lives spent apart from the firehouse, with
personalities that have evolved and seasoned with age and life’s
experiences, the banter and positioning often clicks retroactively back to
another time. Back to where any weakness or personal behavior pattern is fair
game for fun and where stories and situations known only to those who shared
them at times become the focal point of laughter and the occasional joking
dog-pile on one or more individual targets. Nicknames buried years ago,
sometimes to the chagrin of the target, resurface instinctively as if only a
day or two had passed, instead of 15 or 20 years.
The stories, jokes and zingers are sometimes punctuated by news
of another retiree who had passed on, or details on upcoming funeral and wake
arrangements. Someone would read an email they received from a wife or relative
of a former fellow firefighter now suffering from a debilitating disease or who
would enjoy a call or card from those with which he formerly served. Once in
awhile, a somber moment of silence would punctuate the loud banter as former
comrades shared stories with those nearby or shouted across the room. Reality was allowed a small part of the
agenda, but not for long.
The restaurant staff had learned that patience with this group
was necessary, and were prepared for the onslaught of "Hey, we need
another plate of pancakes over here!" and "We could use some more
coffee!" as many of those who normally were now quiet and polite gentlemen
everywhere else, quickly degenerated into the firehouse-like verbal chaos. As one aging retiree would curtly demand a
refill on his coffee from a passing busboy, another would wink at the server
and balance the exchange by explaining, well within earshot, "Don't take
him seriously,” and adding with a wink. “He's just an asshole." A well timed retort, but curiously taken in the
context of an almost affectionate firehouse jab.
Each quarter I look forward to these breakfasts. For at least a
couple of hours, I can catch up with some old comrades, share jabs with former
antagonists, and sometimes just sit back and soak in the momentary transport
back through time to younger days, when we would sit around the firehouse table
or huddle after a fire response. Each
time I'd drink in the warm glow of being part of a special group unlike any other
in the world among those who, whether friendly or adversarial, I respected
over all others.
