A firemens' ball

like being witness to secret rituals

Can confirm , this fellow was not in attendance.

During the week I attended the 100th birthday celebrations of the Edithvale Fire Brigade. Now, I don’t know about you but when the Viking invited me to a fireman's ball I imagined I would be at a ball with all the most recent firefighter calendar entries. I briefly imagined a room full of buff and strong firefighters strutting their stuff. I know….it’s clichéd and ridiculous and the fantasy only lasted a minute or so. I also briefly remembered the new wave satirical comedy of the 60s called The Firemen’s Ball and wondered if I was in for a night of mayhem.

In reality, I found myself in a function venue with a cross section of the local community. There were current volunteers, venerated elders who had trained many in the room and fought for the brigade, juniors and family members as well as thankful locals. Lots of current volunteers looked a lot like many of my friends and readers: middle aged, carrying some extra kilos and fighting a battle to retain their hair. (Probably for the best: apparently firefighters who sign up to be in the calendar are hungry all the time and feel the pressure to look…well…hot! ) And yet, these people ( mostly men in active volunteering roles) answer calls all through the night and attend emergencies ranging from fires, to accidents, spillages, medical emergencies and stuck pets. Others fundraise for the brigade and other causes, train newcomers, arrange logistics and administration. It’s a fiercely independent, some might say bolshie, brigade, and prides itself on being pretty self-sufficient; designing and building its own station, purchasing its own vehicles and having a station owned by the community not the CFA.

The evening began with a beautiful tribute to members who had died and a toast to them. A table had been set up for them, empty and with a variety of symbols representing their passing. A white tablecloth to represent “ their pure intentions in serving”, a red rose with a ribbon to show “the life they led and the enduring love we have for them” and lemon and salt to symbolise the tears shed by families. The seat is empty and the glass upturned “as they cannot drink with us”.

I have never seen this tradition before but it reminded me of the empty chair often seen at Writer’s festivals to represent writers killed or persecuted for their words, who cannot join us. I am told this table tradition derives from the “missing man” table that honours Prisoners of war and others lost in war. That makes sense given that the Edithvale Fire Brigade was begun in the aftermath of WW1.

On November 29 1921 a meeting was held with members of the Council. The Progress Association, local community members and the Country Fire Brigades Board. It was agreed that a fIre Brigade could be set up if it raised money to purchase equipment. The equipment needed was: 300 Foot of hose, 1 Hydrant, 3 Pairs of couplings, 1 Branch, 1 Small hose reel. The book with the handwritten minutes of that meeting was on display on the night, perfect penmanship with no crossings out at all! Over the next few years money was raised and land was secured. The formation and acceptance of the Brigade by the CFBB was conditional upon the fire station being built in 90 days! Suppliers were contacted and a working bee set up and on July 1 1925 the Edithvale Fire Brigade was registered.

During WW2 membership was depleted as many members were sent overseas to fight. Edithvale amalgamated with nearby Aspendale and they set up three bicycle brigades! One from the fire station, one from a chemist shop and the last from the pub! Each bicycle brigade consisted of two bikes, one with a hose and the other with a hydrant or branch ( which seems to be something that connects hose to nozzle). I like to imagine them racing around the suburb on their push bikes.

In the 1960s the CFA decided to disband the Edithvale Brigade. The local community would have none of this and rallied around to ensure they retained their own brigade. The CFA threw down the challenge that if the community could fund their own building they could continue. If not they would be disbanded and nearby Chelsea would take over. They got over the line, council donated land, locals raised money, members did the majority of building works ( while having jobs and volunteering as firefighters!!) and with only $3000 from the CFA the new station was completed in 1969.

The station is even bigger and fancier now, on more land, there are more trucks and there's even a “business hub” so members can work there during the day and be on the spot should they need to respond to a call. Members now respond to medical emergencies as first responders now including heart attack, stroke and drownings. They also respond to non-breathing patients which means they are often first on scene for SIDS deaths. It’s not easy work.

This seems like a big deal to me but it’s all par for the course for the members I spoke with on the night. As we navigated “chicken or beef” and poor quality wine they humbly told me of their involvement. Many had been involved as juniors and continue on in whatever capacity their jobs and bodies allow. They greet each other enthusiastically. There’s barely a given name heard during the evening....in what I guess is some kind of male bonding and display of affection everyone appears to have a nickname. Spout, Hari, Mussels, Wormo amongst them. Some of them relate to physical appearance, others to elements of a given or family name. In an ABC Radio National Bookshelf episode recently James Button talked about nicknames in AFL and referred to it as “a bit of male jousting” and “something to keep the edge going”, maybe it’s the same with firefighters? Anyway, it feels a bit odd to be part of this, like I am witness to a secret society or ceremony. They also take turns in regaling me with tales about each other. What characterises these stories is not the content, that ranges from the x-rated to cute stories of chivalry. What sets them apart for me is the demonstration of affection and mutual respect. I don’t spend much time in groups of men. The last time I did would have been in a time in my work life when I was generally one of only a couple of women in a room. And then the corporate environment nourished competition and toughness. These relationships are less so based on competition but on trust. I guess fighting fires and responding to emergencies requires huge amounts of trust that those you are with know what they are doing and have your back . I have never been in a male locker room after a footy game or a cricket game, but I know team sports rely on trust too, so maybe the same thing happens there…I guess I will never know.

What was so lovely to watch was the sheer enjoyment these men had in one another's company and how much they admired one another. It’s rare for me to hear men praising other men, but there was plenty of it the other evening. An earnest 22 year old shared with me how much respect he had for the older men and how much he felt he belonged. He talked of his call to service and how the brigade family looked after him. I watched that come to life across the evening as people embraced him and chatted with him. An older man, in his 80s I suppose, talked about the “young ones” by which he seemed to mean the Viking and others and what good boys they had been in their younger junior days in the Brigade. He was proud of them and who they had become. And the “young ones” were drawn to him. Each made sure to spend time with him and were so tender and respectful.

There was a lot of daggy dancing to a cover band, there was a LOT of beer drunk, life memberships awarded, photo booths and speeches. During the night a couple of calls came in, one for a dog stuck under a patio. I used to think rescuing animals was a poor use of such precious resources, but now that I know more about the hard things these firefighters see and do and the trauma they witness and experience I can see the appeal of rescuing a kitten stuck in a tree or on a roof. I fact I hope the calls they get during the night involve cute animals and not children with blue lips, factory explosions or car accidents.

When I first moved to Red Hill, I thought I would be a good citizen and volunteer at the CFA. I wandered in one Sunday morning, as the members checked equipment and sirens ( in what I now know is a precursor to the Sunday BBQ and beers) and offered to volunteer in some back room capacity, “ no need love, we’re right” they said. But now I feel I might give it another go….if they are as bolshie as Edithvale I think I might like it.