Every Boys Dream
Once in a while in this world, a fantasy of youth, a fantasy of wild and exciting adventure, will be remembered with great fondness and will still be with a person, years or even decades later. It can still grip the imagination with such excitement and yearning that it almost seems real, seems to have entered the memory in such force that it molds itself into a reality of your history.
Even rarer, is when that fantasy transports itself through time into the present and actually becomes reality, if even for a short moment or two. Becomes life, becomes all the thoughts and feelings of the past but is real in the here and now.
Such is the extraordinary happening that I experienced on a warm spring day, walking, strolling even, down a street in a small Colorado town, high in the mountains in the early 1970's.
The memory of that magical moment will be with me, fresh as if it were only yesterday, until the day I pass into another realm.
My friend, Wild Bill and I were long haired hippies. Bearded, in our mid twenties, wearing wool, leather and trade beads, sheath knives and moccasins or heavy work boots. Mountain hippies, lucky enough to actually be living the wilderness life, not just dreaming about it. And living it well, in tipis and cabins, isolated or grouped in small communities, each with our own craft or trade.
We were "trucking on" through town, as the phrase used to be, moving out. Long strides of comfort and action, combined to transport a body with a flow that moved one on but without the jarring of a trudge or a march. A flow tuned to the rhythm of the body, the day, the planet, the sun, the wind. A beautiful, wonderful flow of life, called walking and awareness. Moving bliss.
Now there are not a lot of streets or buildings in this small mountain town. Or people either if you actually got around to counting them. But it was a nice town, with nice people who cared and shared and the feelings of that day were most excellent. Good vibrations as we used to say.
Good vibes, trucking along until we approached a corner next to a large brick building, when a most incredible and startling thing happened. Shazam, Pow, Kerpow. The town siren, loud and wailing and right next to us on top of the building went off. Did I communicate properly the startling loudness of the sudden interruption and the transformation from one state of reality to another?
One second bliss and quiet and the next, a siren in our ears that was loud enough that it was meant to communicate to the furthest reaches of everywhere. And just as suddenly, as we reached the corner and were frozen, transfixed by the sudden change in our world, a large door flew up beside us and almost immediately another siren started in, combined with a huge motors roar and a clanging bell. Hells bells and the wailing of a banshee could not have been louder or more unexpected. Except for what happened next.
Unexpected doesn't even begin to cover what happened next.
Roaring out from the gigantic door, bells clanging, klaxon sounding, siren wailing came a bright red fire engine. I mean a real, Norman Rockwell type fire engine with an open cab, ladders on the side, chrome everywhere, with places on the side for firemen to stand and the classic platform on the rear for two more firemen, except on this fire engine there was only one man in place, the driver.
Now we could tell he was the man in charge, aside from the fact he was actually driving a big red official fire truck but because well, he had the fireman's pants and boots on and most importantly, the hat. The classic fireman's hat of authority, although with his long blond hair sticking out wildly from the sides and a beard that was locked around the chin strap of the hat and the tie dyed tee shirt, you would not have placed him in the Rockwell painting but there was no mistaking his authority.
He swung that big old truck out the door, hung a hard right, pulled immediately in front of us and stopped, just long enough to shift the gears and gesture with his thumb towards the back of the engine, while looking us right in the eyes, direct into our souls and childhood fantasies and yelled with the authority of God, "GET ON THE BACK"!
Now I can't even begin to imagine what others would do in such a situation, transformed from tranquility to startling chaos in such a split second but Wild Bill and I, we didn't actually do anything, not even think but immediately we moved, transported ourselves really, without hesitation or question and with incredible speed and dexterity. We got on the back.
The Captain, for such was what we immediately thought of him, had barely shouted his orders, shifted gears and floored that old truck, when Bill and I found ourselves wrapped around the bars on the back, standing on the platform and moving down the road at a pace that was twice the speed our hearts were beating. That is racing.
Firemen, actually standing on the back of a bright red screaming, clanging fire engine, roaring off to who knows what? My God, is this real? Hell yes, real. REAL!
After we had a fairly firm grip, we had a moment to look in each others eyes and communicate what, fear, excitement, awe. Our long hair was flying with the wind, our grip was solid, our Southern Rebel screams of exhilaration and passion only slightly less loud than the trucks siren but unheard by any others and almost unheard by ourselves, while the road flowed only inches under our feet at a blur.
It took a mile or two before we even fully realized we really were screaming at the top of our lungs, still hanging onto the back of a moving fire truck, going what, 50, 60 miles an hour, traffic pulling over, bells ringing, siren screaming in harmony, klaxon honking loudly, headed towards the unknown.
I can't imagine the image we presented to those who looked, staring with eyes wide at the screaming specter roaring by. Crazed hippies escaping from an insane asylum maybe. Perhaps a nightmare come true or perhaps it was their dream also, to ride a fire engine, racing towards some unknown. Perhaps they didn't see anything unusual at all, just an emergency vehicle with volunteers, lights flashing, flying to a rescue. Still, all vehicles pulled over to give us room, whether through fear, respect or habit, I cannot judge. But pull over they did.
May every soul on the planet have at least one such moment in their life, whether jumping out of an airplane, charging Yankees, chasing other criminals or some other noble endeavor which brings the full meaning of life and death to the exact point of the reality you are experiencing.
Experiencing in the full measure of every fiber of your body and your mind, second by second. And your memory flashes as you realize, good lord, this is my dream, my fantasy, my childhood yearning. It's happening now. NOW!
I am there, here and now. They merged, the here and now, the past and present.
But what was also merging with the here and now, was the wind and the speed and the cold. Now walking down a mountain road on a sunny spring day and roaring down a road at a mile a minute is different, not only in excitement and speed but also, wind chill. Our hands were losing their feeling, our screaming had stopped and now the glance we shared was one of concern, for freezing to death or becoming so numb we lost our grip. We huddled out of the wind flow as best we could, while clinging on of course and hoping our shivering and shaking, both from the cold and excitement wouldn't cause us to fall off.
There, finally a small bit of smoke getting closer, the engine slowing, then turning off the road onto a small patch of blackened grass, still faintly smokey, with another fire truck from another town beside it and four satisfied looking, slightly blackened citizens and a captain, looking at us as we pulled up, stopped and jumped off.
We almost stumbled being so cold but immediately felt we had to uphold the honor of our truck by appearing ready for whatever. Of course old Bill and I didn't really know squat about fire engines or fighting fires either but we instinctively trusted our captain, this unknown man and fell in behind him as he approached the other group.
"Sorry Capt. The fire's out" explained the other Captain.
You could tell he was the Captain because he was the only one wearing a fire hat. Beside and behind him were his crew. One looked like a town businessman, complete with a tie, although askew. One was a rancher type, one maybe looked like an off duty cop or military and one was definitely a cowboy. A very disparate group. I was wondering if they had been summoned the same way we had but didn't know.
"Damn" our captain said. "The Fire's out?"
"Yep", said the other leader, with a tinge of sympathy.
Perhaps there was a rivalry between them or something but he wasn't rubbing it in. Not at all.
"Well damn", our captain repeated and then sorta startled everyone by adding "I guess I'll just have to start another one'.
Now remember, this was the early 70's in a Colorado mountain town, a slightly different place than anywhere else on the planet at the time. Tipi dwellers, ski bums, ranchers, cowboys, hippies, businessmen. Mostly all getting along and letting everybody do their own thing, as long as they were a member of the community and pulled their own weight and didn't bother others. As volunteered firemen, we were all of one spirit, community minded and willing to help.
Still, when our Capt. said he would just have to start another fire and then proceeded to do just that by lighting up a big ole doobie , I was a bit taken aback as perhaps a few on the other crew were also. Still, we were all "firemen" so to speak.
For those of you who didn't make it into the newly discovered world of peace, brotherhood and love of the 60's and 70's, a "doobie" is a marijuana cigarette or as Thomas Jefferson would have called it, "A Pursuit of Happiness Plant".
Now our captain lights up and proceeded to take a big hit, then out of respect he passes it to the other captain first, who also takes a big slow hit and then passes it to the businessman, who continued the tradition, inhaled and praised the Lord. I said a soft "Amen".
He then passes it to the rancher, who by golly did the same but in a slow, quiet, western way. It was sort of like it was his last breath ever but also his first breath also. Eyes on the horizon, aware but tranquil. In the moment and also conscience of his exact position on the planet and his relationship to it. Like I said, a Rancher type.
I was pretty impressed with the quality of the neighborhood volunteers, especially after the rancher passes it on to the officer type. Now the officer guy didn't take a hit himself but he did give a salute towards the captains while holding that doobie and then passed it on to the cowboy, who sure didn't hesitate to take a big ol slow western hit himself and then passes it on to Wild Bill, who also inhaled a big one and then passes it to me.
Now not wanting to show any disrespect and terribly needing the tranquility the gift of the goddess brings, I did my part also and was damn grateful. I passed it on to our Capt. who took a last drag and then proceeded to take out a canteen and poured water over the short blackened roach or stub. "There" says our Captain, "now the fire is officially out"
The other Capt nodded and affirmed, " The fire is officially out" and we all nodded to each other, without words but in mutual respect and fellowship, as we started to climb back into our respective trucks. Our Capt. motioned to Wild Bill and me to come sit in the front seat with him, which we were only too happy to do. A last wave to the other truck while the Captains gave a mutual salute to the other by a few rings of the bell. Nothing loud, just a clang clang of fare thee well.
We ambled back towards town, sounding the siren and ringing the bell a bit when no traffic was around, feeling the warmth of the engine, even in the open cab, not saying much, just absorbing the feelings of the trip, the quiet roar of the truck, the memory of the vibes of the other crew, the high. Absorbing it all, treasuring every moment, every feeling, knowing it would be there, inside of us always, till we have memories no more.
I don't believe I have ever, before or since, shared such a feeling of community and neighborly respect and love, as that day in the high Colorados, when we joined up with strangers to "put out a fire".
God Bless them all.
God Bless the America that was, on that sunny spring day, when the world changed in a split second and a clanging dream of my childhood, appeared before my eyes and a long haired, Captain of men, a leader, a creator of dreams, stopped his big red fire truck right in front of my reality and ordered me and Wild Bill to "Get On The Back".
Tahn
edited out computer generated punctuation.
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Topic: Every Boys Dream (Read 12940 times)