© Jodi DeLong. All rights Reserved

Its the deepest time of night, when I am jolted from slumber by the sound of a strident duo-tone, a series of beeps and then the call."911 dispatch to all Canning firefighters, you have a report of a barn fire at 416 Smith Street..."

Before the dispatcher has even finished her call to us, I'm out of my bed, scattering sleeping cats like popcorn, groping for clothes. Pause long enough to snatch the pager, still muttering its call, leap into my (always untied) shoes, out the door, down the stairs. As I jump in the car, I hear the siren split the night with banshee wail, and the response of our chief echoes from our pagers, "This is Canning, XJH 332, we have received your page and are responding."

We are responding. Across the area served by the Canning Volunteer Fire Department in Nova Scotia, the scene is being repeated by a group of dedicated men, and one dedicated woman, me. I arrive at our hall and tear into the fire bay, even as the first truck rolls out. In the radio room, our dispatcher talks to 911, calling for backup. I kick my sneakers off, step into my fire retardant bunker pants and boots, grab jacket, nomex hood and helmet, and lumber in my too-large boots towards the next truck to roll. On board with several others, I hear the captain say, "B.A.'s on, guys." Ugh. Still, I shrug the heavy breathing apparatus onto my shoulders, haul the mask over my face, as we scream through the night towards the red glow bringing unnatural dawn to our community.

In 1996, I realized a long-time desire by joining this rural volunteer fire department, the first woman in its 120 year history. I was an unlikely looking firefighter: in my late thirties, not athletic, often arriving with no socks or even wearing a dress to answer the page. But I loved the fire department, the smells of the truck bay, the banter with the rest of the guys, the satisfaction of a job well done.

Time contorts en route to a fire. At the same time as there's urgency to get to the job, a focused calm descends, as methodically I check my gear. Air bottle on, regulator adjusted. Check the pressure gauge and make sure the bottle is full. Adjust my flame retardant hood, haul the helmet on and check it, make sure snaps and velcro and hooks and straps are fastened. Conversation is limited with the heavy face masks, and each of us is alone with our thoughts. How bad will it be? Is anyone hurt? How will we fight it? We see the blaze even as we roar around the last corner, flames leaping exultantly into the night sky, fountaining jets of water already cascading onto the heat. The truck is barely stopped when we're off, several colleagues grabbing a line and heading purposefully toward the scene. I look for the red hat of an officer to take my orders. My captain points me toward another firefighter, and hollers over the noise, "go back him up on the line."

"Roger." I make my way carefully through the maze of hoses to slap the firefighter on the shoulder, and take up position behind him, bracing to help carry the line and improve pressure from the nozzle. Around us there is an organized chaos, as other departments arrive and deploy equipment and manpower.

The fire is a thing of deadly beauty. I'1s undulating a seductive dance, flinging itself disdainfully into the night, feeding greedily on the five thousand bales of hay that were stored in the barn. I watch from within my mask, listening to my echoing breaths, willing myself to breathe slow, make the air last longer so that I don't have to change sooner. Reminded of this, I lean forward to check my partner's gauge. Five minutes left. I point, and he nods and passes the nozzle to me, strides toward our utility vehicle for another bottle. I settle in with the hose straining against me, playing a spray of water back and forth across the wall, across the empty diesel tanks nearby. I look up at the flames, now slumping back a little from the watery onslaught. I remember how as a child I was terrified of fire, terrified of the fire siren that blew at noon and during alarms, terrified of death by
the searing power. Those fears are long gone, and in their place strength, surety, a quiet confidence in what I do and why I do it. And doing this has helped bring me to that point.

The fire is gasping, wallowing now in thousands of gallons of water, its bright eyes dimming, its power lessened. It will be many hours yet before we leave this scene, even after the flames are buried, as we clean up rubble, hose down hot spots, determine what caused the blaze, and head back to the station and clean our gear. Back at the hall later we are filthy, muddy, sweaty, thirsty, hot, tired, wet, hungry, and have that distinctive smell that comes from having worked in smoke for hours. We're also cheerful, making fun of each other, flicking water around, releasing the tensions that come with the job. I spent nearly four years with the fire department before demands of family and work meant that there wasn't enough time left to devote to the department as an active volunteer. I regretfully resigned, but as editor of the small community newspaper, I continue to help with the department by keeping Canning informed on the department's work and creating items for fundraising efforts. When the trucks go past our house, I often yearn to be with them.

A business associate once said to me, "Firefighters are the ultimate volunteers. Who else would run toward a situation that everyone else would run away from? And you do it for nothing, sometimes, not even a thanks." To a point he's right, but you can1t put a price on what I received from firefighting.

Fire is used in craftwork to temper and shape and strengthen materials.

It did the same for me.