We got a new radio system in our dispatch center, and the guy training us on it claimed we could use it at home, on a laptop.

This is a great idea in theory: It would save me gas, and clothes would be cheaper if all I had to buy was pajamas. Of course, video 911 is coming, and callers might not be comfortable with my Star Trek onesie.

Actually, callers might not like seeing me no matter what clothes I'm wearing.

"You got what stuck WHERE?"

This is my thirtieth year celebrating Public Safety Telecommunications Week, which is in April between the snow storms, brush fires, and tornadoes. Since the title's so long, I started calling it PSTW, which is kind of ironic because PSTW sounds a lot like PTSD. Everyone who's dispatched longer than seven years gets to know both. It's science.

Here's the strange thing: I'm burned out on this job. Once too often I've picked up the 911 line only to hear hysterical screaming. Once too often I was the last person someone ever talked to. Once too often the name of a victim or suspect ended up being someone I knew.

Yet it's still the best full time job I ever had.

 

I actually do wear a cape, but only at home when no one is watching. But yay, cookie! Better keep it away from the dog.
 

Maybe it's because we're actually doing something important. That's a weird thing to define when it comes to jobs, because the best paying ones often are the least important. When a family member is having a heart attack, you don't call your favorite sportsball player for an ambulance. For that matter, when your water pipe bursts you don't look up the number for Beyonce, or Reba McEntire. (Actually, Reba could probably help.)

But that's the way it goes, and at least I've never been stalked by a 911 groupie.

 

I know the artist!
 

 

If you've considered being a dispatcher, I'd encourage it. It's way more important than being a security guard at the Oscars. Also, you have to be bad at it to lose your job--the demand for dispatchers just continues to go up.

Still, it can be just a bit stressful. When I'm talking to new people, I like to give them a few tips they don't get in formal training:

No matter what the caller says when you pick up the line, never reply with "You gotta be kidding me."

Always know if you have a live mic. Always.

Try to avoid cursing in dispatch--see above about live mics.

Well ... at least try not to curse too much.

If you have to scream in the bathroom, turn the water on first.

 

 

Yes, you are a first responder. When 911 rings, you're the first to respond to whatever the problem is. All the others have the advantage of knowing that problem, because you find out.

Hold your temper if your 911 caller starts with, "This isn't actually an emergency ..." Deal with it if the business line rings and it is an emergency. So it goes.

If you have to bang your head against a wall, choose a different place each time, to avoid damage to the concrete.

And finally: If the melatonin gives you nightmares, try sleepytime tea. Sleep is precious.

On a related note, that idea of dispatching on a laptop from home? No. I already have dreams in which I come downstairs and find the dispatch center has been moved to my living room, and I'm the only dispatcher. Besides, I like my Star Trek onesie, and Star Wars pajama bottoms just wouldn't be the same.

 



 



Buy some books, just in case of an emergency:


·        Amazon:  
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO

·        Barnes & Noble:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

·        Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4898846.Mark_R_Hunter

·        Blog: https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/

·        Website: http://www.markrhunter.com/

·        Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/

·        Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914

·        Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/

·        Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter

·        Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter

·        Substack:  https://substack.com/@markrhunter

·        Tumblr:  https://www.tumblr.com/ozma914

·        Smashwords:  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ozma914

·        Audible: https://www.audible.com/search?searchAuthor=Mark+R.+Hunter&ref_pageloadid=4C1TS2KZGoOjloaJ&pf



The odds of having to dial 911 are much lower when you're home reading.
ozma914: (Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights)
( Apr. 11th, 2025 07:18 am)

We're close to the anniversary of one of the most famous disasters in American history. No, I’m not talking about the birth of Kanye West. I’m speaking of the Great San Francisco Earthquake and Fire, which struck at 5:13 a.m. on April 18, 1906.

Which was way too early to be waked up that way, or any way.

We seem to be in the age of disasters, so it might be worth remembering that bad things have been happening to good people for a long time, not just since the Kardashians went on the air. One thing that remains the same is human nature: No one wants to think about disasters until they happen, and then their primary mission is to avoid responsibility. This is followed by a building period of forgetfulness, and then the cycle begins anew.

"Gesundheit."


Just as the Great Chicago Fire was accompanied by forest fires that killed thousands in the Midwest, and Hurricane Katrina devastated areas far from New Orleans, the 1906 quake shook up much more than San Francisco. In fact, it was felt from Oregon to Los Angeles, and as far east as Nevada. Two minor earthquakes even hit Las Angeles at about noon that day, probably caused by the earlier shaking. A line of trees two hundred feet wide were smashed along the fault line; small towns along the way were flattened, and any building actually built on the fault found itself at fault.

At least 3,000 people died, and a half million dollars in damage resulted – 1906 dollars. It was … well, it was a disaster.

Many people don’t know that most of San Francisco was not flattened by the earthquake; it was destroyed by the fire that followed.

A rattled homeowner, glad to be alive, got hungry after the earthquake and decided to cook up some ham and eggs, without bothering to check on whether their home’s chimney had been damaged. The resulting blaze, called the “Ham and Egg” fire (naturally), later joined up with other fires to destroy most of the city. Whether that resident actually got to eat the ham and eggs wasn’t reported.

"Pass the orange juice."


So, where the heck was the fire department?

Well, Station #4 wasn’t there anymore: A hotel collapsed on it. The Chief of the San Francisco Fire Department, Dennis T. Sullivan, threw himself out of bed and dashed through the door of his quarters, which was located at the top of another firehouse on Bush Street. (No relation to G.W.)

Unfortunately, the dome of a theater next door had just brought down the rest of the Chief’s fire station, and he dashed into mid-air. He died later that week, leaving the SFFD without its leader.

But Chief Sullivan had built a good department, and the men and equipment still standing dashed into action. Sullivan had recommended the building of a special water system, which could provide water from San Francisco Bay in case an earthquake sheared through regular water mains.

Unfortunately, the City Council refused to fund the system. The regular mains were, indeed, shattered, leaving most of the city dry. U.S. Navy personnel, always ready to help, laid a long fire hose from the bay and put it into action. But the tactics of operating a fire hose aren’t as easy as they appear, and the hapless sailors were outmaneuvered by the flames. They had to retreat, leaving the hose behind.

Steam fire engines generated almost as much smoke as the fires.


That morning a telegraph station in San Diego sent reports of the disaster to the ship “U.S.S. Chicago”, which immediately steamed for San Francisco. It was the first time a wireless transmission was ever used during a disaster. Later the fire alarm and telegraph offices in the city had to be abandoned to the approaching flames, making communications more difficult. It became impossible to coordinate firefighting efforts.

By that time word had gotten out, and Secretary of War Taft ordered all available relief supplies and military units to San Francisco. He later became president, so Taft must have done an okay job.

Less helpful individuals began looting the city, and the Mayor declared open season on such lowlifes. Several were shot; none were missed.

Eventually, with the assistance of volunteers, firefighters, military personnel, and demolition of buildings to create fire breaks, the blaze was controlled. It was time to take stock, and to determine what to do to prevent such a calamity in the future.

No need, according to Father Ricard of the University of Santa Clara, who wrote to a newspaper: “Never mind foreboders of evil: They do not know what they are talking about … those who venture out with predictions of future earthquakes when the main shock has taken place ought to be arrested as disturbers of the peace.”

In other words, don't worry – it won't happen again.

San Francisco City Hall has looked better.


What have we learned from this?

Well, be careful before running through doorways after an earthquake, of course. Good communications are vital. You can’t put out a fire without water. Shooting looters is worth a bullet. Courage alone doesn’t make up for a lack of training and preparation. Don’t cook breakfast until after you’ve started your brain up in the morning.

Finally, and most importantly: Hiding from reality doesn’t prevent anything except being prepared. If somebody tells you “It won’t happen here”, hit them. Preferably in the mouth, so they don’t keep spouting nonsense.

Because it could happen tomorrow.



Some of our books cover fires and disasters, and others are just escapism:

·        Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO

·        Barnes & Noble:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

·        Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4898846.Mark_R_Hunter

·        Blog: https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/

·        Website: http://www.markrhunter.com/

·        Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/

·        Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914

·        Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/

·        Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter

·        Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter

·        Substack:  https://substack.com/@markrhunter

·        Tumblr:  https://www.tumblr.com/ozma914

·        Smashwords:  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ozma914

·        Audible: https://www.audible.com/search?searchAuthor=Mark+R.+Hunter&ref_pageloadid=4C1TS2KZGoOjloaJ&pf


R
emember: In a disaster books might be the only entertainment left.
 I know it may seem like I already posted a version of this a few years ago, but ... maybe it just blew by again.

severe weather cow.webp
Cow.




            I complain about winter weather a lot, so maybe it's time to complain about something else:
 
            Spring weather.
 
            Yes, spring arrived, kind of, at least temporarily. We had snow over the weekend, grass fires today, and the promise of thunderstorms in Indiana this week. The weather people are talking about a bomb cyclone west of us that could drop the barometric pressure so low it equals a category 2 hurricane. Right now that same area is under a red flag fire warning.
 
            Also, notice the winter storm warnings in California.
 
            In a Hoosier spring we often have a traditional ice storm during basketball playoffs. It's actually possible to have an ice/fire tornado, if the conditions are right. I mean, wrong.
 
            So it comes as no surprise that the Governor was delayed by snow drifts on his way to declare March 9 through 15 Severe Weather Preparedness Week. I’d have done it myself if security hadn’t kicked me out of his office.
 
            As part of the celebration … er … observation, the State of Indiana educates, conducts alert system tests, and otherwise tries to keep people from getting killed. Honestly, nothing brings down a wonderful spring day like death.
 
 
Severe weather evening.jpg
 
            I thought I'd help out despite the Governor's restraining order, so let me explain what watch and warning levels and storm terms are:
 
            A Watch means you can stay at your cookout, gaze at the blue sky and make fun of the weatherman right up until the first wind gust blows away your “kiss the cook” hat.
 
            A Warning means that if you haven’t sought shelter, you will die.
 
            A Funnel Cloud should not be mistaken for a funnel cake, which generally kills only one person at a time. Funnel clouds are just tornadoes that haven’t touched the ground; maybe they will, maybe they won’t. If you want to gamble, go to Vegas. Just to make it more fun, sometimes tornadoes reach the ground and start tearing things up even though the bottom part is still invisible. You could be looking at a “funnel cloud” right up until the moment your mobile home changes zip codes.
 
Severe weather funnel cloud.jpg
A funnel cloud in Dekalb County, Indiana. No, I wasn't going to get any closer.

 
 
            A Tornado is really, really bad.
 
            Straight Line Winds can cause as much damage as tornadoes, but aren’t associated with rotation. You can often tell the damage path of these winds by the people standing in the debris, insisting it was a tornado.
 
            A Squall Line is what happens when I forget my wedding anniversary.
 
            Thunderstorms are storms that produce thunder. See what I did, there?
 
            Lighting kills more people than tornadoes, but of course tornadoes are more fun … um … attention grabbing. Tornadoes are like people (okay, men) who get drunk and try to jump motorcycles over sheds using homemade ramps: They’re senseless, spectacular, injury rates are high, and nothing good results except to remind people they’re bad.
 
            Just the same, lightning is also no fun, and can strike miles from where you think the storm is. Of people struck by lightning, 70% suffered serious long-term effects, 10% are permanently killed, and 20% don’t admit being hurt, or didn’t hear the question.
 
            The average forward speed of a tornado is 30 mph, but they can travel up to 70 mph … or remain motionless, which is really unfortunate if you happen to be under one at the time.
 
            The average width of the funnel on the ground is about 100 yards. And, like a flatulent Godzilla, that doesn’t include the wind damage around it. Some can get over a mile wide. (Tornadoes, I mean, not gassy Godzillas.) If you think about it, trying to outrun a 70 mph, mile wide tornado in a car is about as smart as trying to jump a shed from a homemade ramp after your tenth beer.
 
            Tornadoes are most likely from April to June, which means pretty much nothing these days. The last time I took an airplane flight it was delayed by a tornado—in November.
 
So, when do you need to prepare for severe weather? Anytime. Remember, no matter what the season, it only takes a few beers to start building a ramp.
 
 
 
 
Severe weather morning.jpg
 

 
You can read our storm related books, and the other ones, here:


·        Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
·        Barnes & Noble:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"
·        Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4898846.Mark_R_Hunter
·        Blog: https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/
·        Website: http://www.markrhunter.com/
·        Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/
·        Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914
·        Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/
·        Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter
·        Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter
·        Substack:  https://substack.com/@markrhunter
·        Tumblr:  https://www.tumblr.com/ozma914
·        Smashwords:  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ozma914
·        Audible:  https://www.audible.com/search?searchAuthor=Mark+R.+Hunter&ref_pageloadid=4C1TS2KZGoOjloaJ&pf

 
Remember, every time you buy a book, Godzilla rolls over and goes back to sleep. Save Tokyo.
 

 So, I'm retiring. Not from my full time job of dispatching to become a Gentleman Author, as I wanted. (It's like a Gentleman Farmer, a rich person who just farms as a hobby. No real farmer is a Gentleman Farmer, especially considering their ungentlemanly language while going through bills.)

At my full time job we got an email pointing out, now that one of the Sheriff Department detectives has retired, I have the most seniority of anyone there or in dispatch. By six years. Maybe in the entire Noble County Government, although I'm not motivated to find out.

Nor will I retire from writing, until they pry my fingers from the keyboard. Maybe not even then, if I can manage text to speech. No, I'm retiring from what I've done longest (other than biological functions) in my adult life: firefighting.

 That's Phil Jacob standing beside me, holding his pin for being a firefighter for 55 (!) years. I remain unconvinced Phil will ever retire. In fact, I should put off working on my Haunted Noble County book, because fifty years from now he'll be haunting the Albion firehouse. When I look at him (or Tom Lock, who joined up six months before I did), I realize I'd never have the most seniority on the Albion Fire Department.

I don't know how they do it. I beat my body down too badly. After working a fire, I'd be in so much pain I couldn't function for days. My back pain goes all the way back to back to back fires way back in the 80s, where I wore a steel air tank for longer than even a young pup should. It got progressively worse, and I slowly realized over the last few years that I was threatening to become another victim to treat at an emergency scene, instead of contributing.

The tanks are a lot lighter now, but I'm a lot heavier. And I have less hair.

 

In the last year I developed shoulder problems. Recently my knees started acting up, in a temper tantrum kind of way. (And they make strange noises.) I've got arthritis in my big toe, for crying out loud. Ever since Covid, it's been all I can do to get through a day without falling asleep on the couch. Okay, maybe six decades of living has more to do with that than Covid.

I'm not complaining so much as explaining. I loved firefighting. The guys and gals who volunteer at the AFD, and our neighboring departments, are my brothers and sisters--they're family. But I couldn't even go to the station much, especially between those murderous 12-hour night shifts in dispatch that wouldn't happen if I was a gentleman author.


But I put it off. I didn't want to admit I can't do something I used to be able to do. When I finally told my wife I was pulling the plug, she wasn't a bit surprised. Most likely no one was.

So I wrote the membership a letter, and a few weeks later, when we walked into the annual AFD Appreciation Dinner, I saw my name tag and a helmet with my number on it. It was real. I had by then reached the depression stage of grief. I'll let you know when the acceptance stage arrives.

Here's Brian Tigner, a hard worker for the AFD, giving me my stuff and telling me they'd just as soon I left through the back door. Kidding! The reconditioned barn where we had dinner was awesome.

Wow, this turned out to be more of a downer than I'd planned. It's not all bad: I'll stay on as an honorary member, doing the Facebook page, taking pictures, doing public information stuff, and so on. I'm also halfway done with that new AFD book, which keeps getting put on the back burner for one reason after another. But I'm thinking of going to this year's Fish Fry as a diner instead of a server ... that concrete floor is hell on my back.

I look good in red flannel. I do, TOO.

 

To this day, I don't know how I worked up the courage to walk into that firehouse door on my eighteenth birthday. Me, the shy, antisocial introvert with no interest in being on a team--except this one. Every time I headed up to the station, I stepped outside my comfort zone. If I hadn't I'd have missed most of the events of my life, and I wonder then if I would have ever had anything to write about.

And for every bad thing I experienced, there were a dozen great things.

Forty-three years. I'll carry them forever ... in a good way.



 

If you send a book to every retired person you know, they might not complain that you never come to see them.



 April has sucked royally thus far, and I haven't felt very funny (as opposed to not being funny and thinking I am). So I'm celebrating National Public Safety Telecommunicators Week the way they used to do summer television: With a re-run.)
 



I've been taking 911 calls for so long that they were originally 91 calls.

Well, it seems that way. It turns out National Public Safety Telecommunicators Week predates my full-time employment in the emergency services by ten years, and can we possibly shorten that name down a bit? By the time I finish saying the title, the week is over. I'm going to call it ... NPSTW. I know somebody who got their Bachelor Degree at NPSTW, although they've since married. Go Bulldogs!

Anyway, I started with the Noble County EMS as a seventeen year old trainee in late 1979, and joined our volunteer fire department on my birthday in 1980. But it wasn't until December, 1991, that I took an actual paying job in that area, as a jail officer with the Noble County Sheriff Department.

Within a few years I got tired of getting sick all the time. Seriously: Those inmates breathed so many germs on me, I thought I was in a sequel to The Andromeda Strain. So I went into dispatch, trading physical ailments for mental ones.

 

 Unknown to me, way back in 1981 Patricia Anderson, of the Contra Costa County Sheriff's Office in California, came up with this idea to give tribute to, um, NPST, or as I'm going to call them, dispatchers. Yes, I know "dispatchers" doesn't tell the whole story, but my typing fingers are tired.

I've been here--let me update--about 32 years, and dispatched for most of those. So long that when I started we had only one computer, to get information such as license plate and driver's license returns, using DOS.

Get your grandparents to explain DOS to you.

My wife points out that back then we received 911 calls by smoke signal, while carving notes onto stone tablets. I'm fairly sure she was kidding.

I've been here so long I could retire. Full retirement pay! Sadly, I haven't figured out how to make up  for insurance and the difference in income, but I'm hoping my book sales will pick up. (Note: They have, but not enough.) Also, it would be tough learning to sleep through the night.

Things really were easier back then, when it comes to learning the job. Our computer systems do make it easier to help people these days, but astronauts don't train as much as our rookies do. Spaceship vehicle pursuits are faster, though. The truth is, I'm not sure I could make it through training, if I started today.

Instead of one small computer screen,  I'm looking at seven flat screen monitors, not including the security and weather screens. Our report was written (in pen) on a piece of paper about half the size of a standard sheet. Today we have a Computer Aided Dispatch (CAD), radio screen, phone screen, mapping screen, recorder screen, 911 texting screen, and a screen to keep track of everyone's duty status. We also have a screen to keep track of screens. Those are just the ones we use regularly.

I found this waiting for me when I got into work Monday. They get me.
 
 
I'm pretty burned out at this point, and some of our calls can get rough. I have all the symptoms of PTSD; some of them include:

Experiencing a life-threatening event, like when the dispatch pop machine ran out of Mountain Dew;
Flashbacks and nightmares, such as reliving the night we ran out of Mountain Dew;
Avoidance, such as staying away from places that don't have ... well, you know.
Depression or irritability, which I just now realized might be related to consuming too much caffeine;
Chronic pain ... wow, that one hit me like a pulled back muscle.

I checked off each and every box: avoidance, numbing, flashbacks, being on edge, overeating ... HEY! Who the HECK took my meatball sub out of the break room fridge! I'm HUNGRY!

Where was I? Oh, yeah:

Why the heck am I still here?

Here's the thing. I've worked in retail; in factories; as a security guard and jail officer; as a radio DJ; I once made two bucks an hour growing worms for fishing lure. And for all the emotional turmoil, all the mental stress, all the physical ailments, all the days when I wanted to scream, and so desperately wanted to NOT go back into work the next shift ...

Dispatching is still the best full time job I've ever had.

Of course, I'm not a full time writer, yet. For that I'd only have to deal with one computer screen.

Wait, am I seriously the only male who works here? Anyway, thank you to the Town of Albion for the thank you.
 


http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 Ironically, I got busy with the weather and didn't get a new blog written--but this one's from nine years ago, and in internet terms it might as well be brand new.


            I complain about winter weather a lot, so maybe it's time to complain about something else:

            Spring weather.

            Yes, spring arrived, kind of, like the proverbial lion. The last day of March brought us a tornado watch and thunderstorm warning. However, considering the blizzard warning in Minnesota and South Dakota--at the same time tornadoes raged through much of the nation--I won't complain.
 
Oh, who am I kidding?
 
In a Hoosier spring we can have a snowstorm one day, a flood the next, grass fires the day after that, and the traditional ice storm during basketball playoffs. It's actually possible to have an ice/fire tornado, if the conditions are right. I mean, wrong.
 
So it comes as no surprise that the Governor was delayed by snow drifts on his way to declare March 12 through 18 Severe Weather Preparedness Week. I’d have done it myself if security hadn’t kicked me out of his office.

            I waited to put this out until after that week, so if something horrible happened it wouldn’t seem like I was going for ironic.

            As part of the celebration … er … observation, the State of Indiana educates, conducts alert system tests, and otherwise tries to keep people from getting killed. Honestly, nothing brings down a wonderful spring day like death.
 

 

            I thought I'd help out despite the Governor's restraining order, so let me explain what watch and warning levels and storm terms are:

            A Watch means you should stay at your cookout, gaze at the blue sky and make fun of the weatherman right up until the first wind gust blows away your “kiss the cook” hat.

            A Warning means that if you haven’t sought shelter, you will die.

            A Funnel Cloud should not be mistaken for a funnel cake, which generally kills only one person at a time. Funnel clouds are just tornadoes that haven’t touched the ground; maybe they will, maybe they won’t. If you want to gamble, go to Vegas. Just to make it more fun, sometimes tornadoes reach the ground and start tearing things up even though the bottom part is still invisible. You could be looking at a “funnel cloud” right up until the moment your mobile home changes zip codes.
 
A funnel cloud. And no, I wasn't going to get any closer.

 

            A Tornado is really, really bad.

            Straight Line Winds can cause as much damage as tornadoes, but aren’t associated with rotation. You can often tell the damage path of these winds by finding people who are standing in the debris, insisting it was a tornado.

            A Squall Line is what happens when I forget my wedding anniversary.

            Thunderstorms are storms that produce thunder. See what I did, there?

            Lighting kills more people than tornadoes, but of course tornadoes are more fun … um … attention grabbing. Tornadoes are like people who get drunk and try to jump motorcycles over sheds using homemade ramps: They’re senseless, spectacular, injury rates are high, and in the end nothing good comes from them except to remind people they’re bad.

            Just the same, lightning is also no fun, and can strike miles away from where you think the storm is. Of people struck by lightning, 70% suffered serious long term effects, 10% are permanently killed, and 20% don’t admit being hurt, or didn’t hear the question.

            The average forward speed of a tornado is 30 mph, but they can travel up to 70 mph … or remain motionless, which is really unfortunate if you happen to be under one at the time.

            The average width of the funnel on the ground is about 100 yards. Think about that. And, like a flatulent Godzilla, that doesn’t include the wind damage around it. Some can get over a mile wide. (Tornadoes, I mean, not gassy Godzillas. Wow.) If you think about it, trying to outrun a 70 mph, mile wide tornado in a car is about as smart as trying to jump a shed from a homemade ramp after your tenth beer.

            Tornadoes are most likely from April to June, which means pretty much nothing these days. The last time I took an airplane flight it was delayed by a tornado—in November.

So, when do you need to prepare for severe weather? Anytime. Remember, no matter what the season, it only takes a few beers to start building a ramp.


 

 
Remember, every time you buy a book, Godzilla rolls over and goes back to sleep. Save Tokyo.
 
 

 One stressful thing about being a dispatcher is that when the phone rings it could be anything. Many of us play Dispatch Bingo. A UFO report? A herd of cattle blocking the roadway? Lunch, interrupted? A couple arguing over who gets custody of their dog? That's a row--bingo!

For some dispatchers this is one of the perks of the job: the challenge and variety. For others, not so much.

Years ago the business line rang and, in a calm voice, a man gave me his name and home address, so we could notify his family. Then he gave me the location where we could find his body. Then he hung up.

Often, when a suicidal person reaches out, it's a cry for help. Not this time. When our units arrived they could only confirm my certainty: Immediately after hanging up the phone, he shot himself. I was the last person he ever spoke to.

It messed me up.

Word got around, and my boss called to check on me. I told him I would be okay, which was true in the long run. I don't know if I told him that in the short run I wasn't okay at all, but my wife was with me, and I hung in there.

I've served in three branches of the emergency services: EMS, Fire, and 911 Dispatch. If anyone mentions PTSD or critical incident stress, I immediately flash back to one particular call in each of those three areas. But a lot of time has passed since those incidents, and although they still dwell in the dark corners of my brain, they don't control my life.

Usually.


Earlier this year we received a report of a person threatening to kill themself with a gun. I didn't take that call, but the moment I heard the details my body chilled, I could barely breath, and my mind went numb. That suicide from so long ago crashed out of the cage I'd trapped it in and rampaged through my head.

It turns out the person in this case did not have a gun, and the whole thing ended peacefully. Still, it was a wake up call. A jangling alarm that took about five years off my life ... and after three decades at this job, I've already lost enough. It's one of the reasons why I've been pushing my writing career: Not only because I have a lot of stories to tell, but because I'd like to spend my time writing them instead of screaming into a pillow after work every morning.


(This is one time in this blog when I exaggerate: No, I don't scream into a pillow after work. I kiss my wife, hug the dog, and hit the bed, where I usually get a good eight hours of sleep in between the weird dreams.)

I'm not writing this to get sympathy for me. I just wanted to remind everyone that the person you think is strong and "normal" may be battling monsters inside. In fact, they may be the most cheerful people you know, always with a smile and a joke. But the effects of stress are real, and the challenge of maintaining our mental health is a stigma that still remains, even today.


Look after yourself. Look after your friends. And if someone says they're having a problem with their emotions or their mental state, take them seriously. Sometimes we make it look way easier than it is.

Now, I'm off to write some humor ... we all have our ways to cope.

 

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 

 On Saturday evening the Albion Fire Department held our annual dinner to recognize significant others, supporters and officials, and members who reached service year milestones. (Or, as I put it when I hit 40 years, survived.)

 It was held in the Augusta Hills Event Center, which used to be surrounded by a golf course. Before that it was the town of Augusta, Noble County Seat (population: not many, but they had a courthouse and a jail.)

I'm only going to post a few photos to keep my blog from breaking, but you can see the whole post on the AFD/Fire Auxiliary Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/albionfd. Here's the whole list of recognized firefighters:
 
One year- Ryan Jones and Rob Davis (They got an AFD coat. I mean they each did, not one to share.)
Five years- Connor Marks and Bob Amber (But this isn't Chief Amber's first smoke-eater job.)
Twenty years- John Urso
Twenty Five years- Michael Davis
Thirty years - Bryan Peterson
Thirty Five years- Gregg Gorsich
Forty years- Kevin Libben
 
The committee, headed by Brian Tigner, did a great job setting things up, and on a related note I'm now a big fan of brisket.
 
(I didn't take these photos, by the way--I believe the Chief's wife did. I was busy stuffing myself full of brownies at the time.)
 
 
In his 40 years Kevin Libben has served in every major position on the AFD, including mucking the horse stalls as a rookie. If you don't think that's major, see what happens if you don't muck the stalls. Beside him is present Chief Bob Amber, who is, comparatively speaking, a greenhorn.
 
 
Gregg Gorsuch was not able to make it, so I won't make fun of him. A past Chief, he's worked as both a volunteer firefighter and a farmer, so he's clearly a glutton for punishment.
 
 

 
After 30 years, Bryan Peterson was forced to retire from the AFD due to a rare disease that causes uncontrolled beard growth. Bryan was rewarded with his helmet shield and turnout coat name tag, but he has to turn the latter back in if we ever get another firefighter named B. Peterson.
 
Mike Davis has completed 25 years as a firefighter, a job his father also held. I believe I trained Mike when he started, but he turned out okay, anyway.
 
 
John Urso is another who attained captain, Assistant Chief, and Chief status, not all at once. He's been on the AFD for 20 years, so long that some people can remember his hair color.
 
 
I'll risk crashing my blog with one more photo, of the most important group of all: the spouses of AFD firefighters. They are, from left to right: female. But we've had several women firefighters, so sooner or later there'll be an out of place looking man standing in the group.
 
Remember, you can go to the AFD Facebook page for a few more photos. Thanks to everyone who helped and attended!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
You can find our books, including the AFD history story, Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights, here:
 

 As a group, humans have an amazing ability to screw themselves.

Not literally, mind you. I mean, if we could do that, we'd never leave the house.

Whenever bad weather approaches, I take it upon myself to warn people as much as I'm able, for two reasons: First, it's the decent thing to do. This is a foreign concept for some people, but it's not like it takes a lot of resources to type "Funnel cloud sighted! And by the way, buy my books in the Storm Chaser series."

Okay, so I throw in a commercial here and there: So does The Weather Channel.

Meh ... I've seen worse.

The second reason is laziness. I'm a dispatcher, and whenever severe weather hits we're guaranteed to be a lot busier. I don't like being a lot busier. A little busy is just fine, thank you.

So as soon as the experts (I'm not an expert--it turns out the words "meteorology" and "degree" go together) predicted foul weather for the upcoming Christmas weekend, I shouted it from the rooftops.

Okay, well, I shouted it from social media. Nobody really listens on the rooftops, anymore. Besides, it's slippery up there.

Some people appreciate the warning, and I like to think I've saved them some trouble, here and there. But the biggest response weather forecasts get is "Yeah, whatever--they're always wrong".

Which isn't true, but it is true that bad weather is notoriously difficult to predict in detail. Good weather's much easier--go figure.

Which brings us to the second and more common response: "Yeah, it probably won't even flurry." Followed by two parties and twelve beers, because we're talking about people who don't recognize danger signs.

"What's this crap? Why was I not notified?"

 

As of this moment, late Monday, forecasters are guaranteeing two things in northern Indiana this weekend: It'll be bitterly cold, and it'll be so windy I'll be bitter. It also appears pretty certain that--surprise!--the whole thing will begin with rain on Thursday.

More rain means less snow. I'm all for that, except for the strong cold front and the whole flash freezing thing. Flash Freezing is not a DC comic villain, people.

Everyone is stressing over snow, and as of now the forecast really is between 2 and 18 inches. It depends on the track of the storm and how far the wind drives lake effect snow, but here's the part people ignore: While we may get the low end of that scale, there's no reason why we shouldn't get the high end. To compare, during the Blizzard of '78 Fort Wayne got about 17 inches of snow. Somebody in the Midwest is going to get that much this weekend. Why not us?

Given the choice, I'd prefer my car remain in the driveway. All winter.

 

Forget snow amounts, and consider this: There is more than one kind of blizzard. One type often happens after snowstorms, when sustained strong winds blow the fallen snow around, causing drifting and extreme driving hazards.

Snow, followed by cold temps and long-term strong winds?

That's the forecast for this weekend.

So I'm just the messenger, with some reminders:

Four wheel drive is useless on ice. The only good your big truck might do is help compensate for something.

Many emergency vehicles and tow trucks do NOT have four wheel drive, and 4WD might not get through severe drifting, anyway. So if you have to go out, stock your vehicle with whatever you might need to survive for awhile.

Most county and municipal snow plows will not be out 24/7. They have only one shift, and the drivers need rest. If you have to go out stick to main roads, but remember: If it gets bad enough long enough, the Indiana Department of Transportation might have to pull their plows off the road, also.

If your employer requires you to come to work no matter what the road conditions, you need a new employer. Or let them come pick you up, if they think it's not bad. With the exception of essential jobs (like mine, but I can slog down the sidewalk), there's no reason to endanger someone for the sake of a paycheck.

Utility companies also can't come out if the roads are blocked. Make preparations for long-term power outages.

Here's the fun part: Almost everything done to prepare for a snowstorm should be done to prepare for any disaster or weather emergency. Food, water, medicine, warmth, books, not necessarily in that order.

You might think I'm kidding about the books, but if you have kids at home you need to look after your own sanity, and locking them in the garage is not socially acceptable. Remember, whatever they do to pass the time, they'll run out of battery power sooner or later.

As for me, don't you worry: I may have to work this weekend, but I'll dress warmly.

My other car is a sleigh!

 

Don't forget, Coming Attractions remains free on Smashwords for the rest of the year:

 

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ozma914

And as usual, find all our books here:

 

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 

 


 

 


I wish I'd written this but, sadly, I don't know the author. What I do know is that the author must be an emergency responder. (I first found it in 2006, so if some parts seem a little outdated, that's why.)



I wish you could know what it is like to search a burning bedroom for
trapped children at 3 AM, flames rolling above your head, your palms and
knees burning as you crawl, the floor sagging under your weight as the
kitchen below you burns.

I wish you could comprehend a wife's horror at 6 in the morning as I check her husband of 40 years for a pulse and find none. I start CPR anyway, hoping to bring him back, knowing intuitively it is too late. But wanting his wife and family to know everything possible was done to try to save his life.

I wish you knew the unique smell of burning insulation, the taste of
soot-filled mucus, the feeling of intense heat through your turnout
gear, the sound of flames crackling, the eeriness of being able to see
absolutely nothing in dense smoke-sensations that I've become too
familiar with.

I wish you could read my mind as I respond to a building fire "Is
this a false alarm or a working fire? How is the building constructed? What
hazards await me? Is anyone trapped?" Or to call, "What is wrong with the
patient? Is it minor or life-threatening? Is the caller really in distress or
is he waiting for us with a 2x4 or a gun?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I wish you could be in the emergency room as a doctor pronounces dead
The beautiful five-year old girl that I have been trying to save during the past 25 minutes. Who will never go on her first date or say the words, "I love you Mommy" again.

I wish you could know the frustration I feel in the cab of the
engine, squad, or my personal vehicle, the driver with his foot pressing down
hard on the pedal, my arm tugging again and again at the air horn chain, as
you fail to yield the right-of-way at an intersection or in traffic. When you
need us however, your first comment upon our arrival will be, "It took
you forever to get here!"

I wish you could know my thoughts as I help extricate a girl of
teenage years from the remains of her automobile. "What if this was my
daughter, sister, my girlfriend or a friend? What were her parents
reaction going to be when they opened the door to find a police officer with hat in hand?"

I wish you could know how it feels to walk in the back door and greet
my parents and family, not having the heart to tell them that I nearly
did not come back from the last call.

I wish you could know how it feels dispatching officers, firefighters
and EMT's out and when we call for them our heart drops because no
one answers back, or to here a bone chilling 911 call of a child or wife
needing assistance.

I wish you could feel the hurt as people verbally, and sometimes
physically, abuse us or belittle what I do, or as they express their
attitudes of "It will never happen to me."

I wish you could realize the physical, emotional and mental drain or
missed meals, lost sleep and forgone social activities, in addition to
all the tragedy my eyes have seen.

 

 

I wish you could know the brotherhood and self-satisfaction of
helping save a life or preserving someone's property, or being able to be there
in time of crisis, or creating order from total chaos.

I wish you could understand what it feels like to have a little boy
tugging at your arm and asking, "Is Mommy okay?" Not even being able to
look in his eyes without tears from your own and not knowing what to say. Or
to have to hold back a long time friend who watches his buddy having CPR
done on him as they take him away in the Medic Unit. You know all along he did not have his seat belt on. A sensation that I have become too familiar with.

Unless you have lived with this kind of life, you will never truly
understand or appreciate who I am, we are, or what our job really means
to us...I wish you could though.
 

Appreciate and support the local EMS workers, 911 dispatchers, firefighters, and law enforcement officers in your area.

One day that might save your property or your life. When you see them coming with lights flashing, move out of the way quickly, then pray for them.
 

 


 

 

 


http://markrhunter.com/

https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 

 We're getting a new radio system in our dispatch center, and the guy training us on it claims we could use it at home, on a laptop.

This is a great idea in theory: It would save me gas, and clothes would be cheaper if all I had to buy was pajamas. Of course, video 911 is coming, and callers might not be comfortable with my Star Trek onesie.

Actually, callers might not like seeing me no matter what clothes I'm wearing.

"You got what stuck WHERE?"

This is my thirtieth year celebrating Public Safety Telecommunications Week, which is in April between the snow storms, brush fires, and tornadoes. Since the title's so long, I started calling it PSTW, which is kind of ironic because PSTW sounds a lot like PTSD. Everyone who's dispatched longer than seven years gets to know both. It's science.

Here's the strange thing: I'm burned out on this job. Once too often I've picked up the 911 line only to hear hysterical screaming. Once too often I was the last person someone ever talked to. Once too often the name of a victim or suspect ended up being someone I knew.

Yet it's still the best full time job I ever had.

 

I actually do wear a cape, but only at home when no one is watching. But yay, cookie! Better keep it away from the dog.
 

 

(To be fair, my part time radio DJ job was nothing but fun, even though I kind of sucked at it. But that job, in a problem similar to my writing gig, barely paid enough for the gas to get there.)

Maybe it's because we're actually doing something important. That's a weird thing to define when it comes to jobs, because the best paying ones often are the least important. When a family member is having a heart attack, you don't call your favorite sportsball player for an ambulance. For that matter, when your water pipe bursts you don't look up the number for Beyonce, or Reba McEntire. (Actually, Reba could probably help.)

But that's the way it goes, and at least I've never been stalked by a 911 groupie.

 

I know the artist!
 

 

If you've considered being a dispatcher, I'd encourage it. It's way more important than being a security guard at the Oscars. (Ahem.) Also, you have to be really bad at it to lose your job--the demand for dispatchers just continues to go up.

Still, it can be just a bit stressful. When I'm talking to new people, I like to give them a few tips they don't get in formal training:

No matter what the caller says when you pick up the line, never reply with "You gotta be kidding me."

Always know if you have a live mic. Always.

Try to avoid cursing in dispatch--see above about live mics.

Well ... at least try not to curse too much.

If you have to scream in the bathroom, turn the water on first.

 

 

 

Yes, you are a first responder. When 911 rings, you're the first to respond to whatever the problem is. All the others have the advantage of knowing that problem, because you find out.

Hold your temper if your 911 caller starts with, "This isn't actually an emergency ..." Deal with it if the business line rings and it is an emergency. So it goes.

If you have to bang your head against a wall, choose a different place each time, to avoid damage to the concrete.

And finally: If the melatonin gives you nightmares, try sleepytime tea. Sleep is precious.

On a related note, that idea of dispatching on a laptop from home? No. I already have dreams in which I come downstairs and find the dispatch center has been moved to my living room, and I'm the only dispatcher. Besides, I like my Star Trek onesie, and Star Wars pajama bottoms just wouldn't be the same.

 



 Last year I was inspired to write a parody holiday season song, and this year it appears I still haven't learned my lesson. Here's last year's effort:

https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2020/12/tis-911-season.html  

Again, I can't imagine anyone who's not in the emergency services will fully appreciate this, but that never stopped me before. I wrote new lyrics to the Christmas song "Happy Holiday/The Holiday Season”, dedicated to emergency telecommunicators out there--including those who, like me, still call themselves 911 dispatchers.

I'm 30 years on the job, so it's possible it's starting to get to me.

I am, too: see?

 

 

Crappy Holiday/The Dispatcher Season

 

(Sung to the tune of “Happy Holiday/The Holiday Season” … in Andy Williams’ voice.)

 

Crappy holiday,

crappy holiday

As the relatives keep drinking

Crappy holiday to you

 

It’s the family fight season

And Uncle Ted is coming ‘round

He gets so drunk that he falls to the ground

When old Teddy gets into town

He’ll be going to the jailhouse now

(He’ll be going to the jailhouse now)

https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8bUsKkmLjtg/WF9U5aMawpI/AAAAAAAACv0/hlgOdR8gUWgfJvbeKznVr5wCl98LCy5cwCPcBGAYYCw/s320/NCSD%2Btree.JPG

 

It’s the drunken fight season

Your cousin Roy got into the booze

Wonder  how many fights he will lose

He may show up on the evening news

He’ll be sleeping in the jailhouse now

(He’ll be sleeping in the jailhouse now)

 

Your nephew Jack is flat on his back

The football game didn’t go quite his way

So your old gram, a big Bears fan

put him underneath the Christmas tree

 

It’s the drunk driving season

An SUV, instead of a sleigh

Is hung up on your outside display

The guy inside thinks he’s in his driveway

He’ll be going to the jailhouse now

(He’ll be going to the jailhouse now)

 

Crappy holiday

(drunken holiday) Crappy holiday

Till the hangover takes over

Crappy holiday … to you!

 

 


 

Remember, every time you don't buy a book, the Grinch steals a tree.

 

 

 Hey, I almost forgot: December 13th marked my thirtieth anniversary working in Noble County Government!

It's complicated, because I spent the first few years working in the Noble County Jail, and thus can honestly say I spent time in jail. After that I moved to dispatch, which is now it's own department: Noble County Communications.


I was disappointed that there was no cake ... but then, I'm always disappointed when there's no cake.

Sometimes the job gets ... rough. I used to go home and scream into a pillow from time to time, but it upsets the dog. And I'll be the first to admit that I thought all along I'd be writing full time by now. But we have an important job, and I work with good people, and we have heat and air conditioning. Also my vacation days have reset, and there's something comforting about knowing if things get really stressful, I can take some time off to eat ... well, chocolate cake. Or brownies. With chocolate frosting.

Anyway, while I could have retired last year, I can only afford it if I supplement my retirement pay by selling, according to my estimation, a thousand books a week. Right now a good week is double digits.

But I'm working on it.

And, hey--dispatch gets a tree.

 

 

 Every five years I do nothing to honor National Public Safety Telecommunications Week, so I'm reprinting this from 2017. Hah! No, I'm not taking the week off, I'm just working on a novel, instead. There's a fire truck in it.


In 1991, after an unfortunate encounter with a teething baby, a Congressman from Delaware became the very first person to yell, "What's the number for 911?"

Okay, I was kidding about the baby: He just wanted to complain that the Congressional Dining Room coffee had gone cold. Still, he made a basic mistake that led to a delayed emergency response: He tried to dial "nine eleven". In an effort to get the word out that the number for 911 is "nine one one", Congress declared the second full week in April to be National Public Safety Telecommunications Week. (They declared the third full week of April to be Teething Baby Awareness Week.)

Indiana made that same declaration in 1999, and this year April 11-17 is that very same week. That's why, being a public safety telecommunicator myself, I tried to take that week off.

I mean, it was my week, right? Daiquiris in Hawaii for all dispatchers! But it turns out emergency dispatch centers have to be manned 24 hours a day, something they didn't tell me when I signed on.

(Okay, it's possible they did tell me that. It was thirty years ago--and while I haven't slept well since then, I have slept.)

I call myself a dispatcher because "public safety telecommunicator" doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but the longer term is more accurate. In bigger dispatch centers, one dispatcher might take 911 calls, another might page out ambulances, a third radio police, a forth may be dedicated to fire departments, and so on. In a smaller dispatch center (like mine), the dispatcher does all that.

He might also enter calls into the computer, do other computer work like arrest warrants, stolen vehicle entries and missing persons reports, run licenses for traffic stops, and take business line calls. He might empty the trash, make coffee, and operate the security doors for the county or city jails. He might set off the local tornado sirens (hopefully during tornado warnings). He (wait, I think most of them are she) might enter missing person and Amber Alert reports into national databases, try to talk down suicidal people on the phone, or talk somebody through doing CPR to their loves ones. It might be any combination of the above at the same time.

So "dispatcher" doesn't really cover it.
Part of the time you don't really need all the people who work in a dispatch center. The rest of the time you need three times as many. Sadly, no one has yet come up with a way to predict which time will fall at which--well--time. But there are certain ways to tell if it's going to get busy:

If you just heated up your meal.
If there's a full Moon, regardless of what the research "experts" say.
If some moron just said, "say, it's been quiet tonight".
If you just realized your bladder is full.

In the emergency services, breaks are just an obscure theory. They're best taken at the dispatch console, with a microwave nearby. My record for reheating soup is eight times, but hey--I'm a slow eater, anyway.

When 911 calls you away from that already lukewarm chimichanga, it might be to help someone whose little toe has been hurting for three days. Or, maybe you're about to become the last person someone ever talks to. Not knowing is a large part of the stress.

I'm told the average career length for a 911 dispatch is 7-10 years, give or take. If you do it longer than 10 years, you qualify as legally insane. I've done it for three times that long.

In that time I learned some of the really serious stuff is actually the easiest. Your house is on fire? Send the fire department. You're having chest pains? Send an ambulance. Many of my least favorite calls come in on the non-emergency line, and start with "Can I ask you a question?" In my business, there's a fine line between "question" and "complaint", but either way it's bound to end up being one of those head scratchers.

There's also the fact that many 911 calls aren't emergencies, and sometimes business line calls are.

So yeah, I think it's great that people in this job get a week of their own--they earned it. You know how I want to celebrate Public Safety Telecommunications Week? That's right: a vacation.

But I can wait a little longer for that ... maybe take it on a weekend, in the summer ... during a full Moon.

 
 






 
 
 
ozma914: mustache Firefly (mustache)
( Dec. 17th, 2020 06:24 pm)

 I don't know if anyone who's not in the emergency services will fully appreciate this, but what the heck. I wrote some new lyrics to the Christmas song "Deck the Halls", and it's dedicated to all the emergency telecommunicators out there--including those who, like me, still call themselves 911 dispatchers.

I just hit my 29th anniversary on the job, so don't mess with me: I'm legally insane:

 

 

TIS THE 911 SEASON

 

Tis the season for the fighting,

Fa la la la la, la la la

Kicking, screaming and the biting

Fa la la la la, la la la

 

Barroom fights and family squabbles

Fa la la la la, la la la

Louder than a turkey gobbles

Fa la la la la, la la la

 

 

Frequent flier, 911

Fa la la la la, la la la

Claiming that his meds are gone

Fa la la la la, la la la

 

Overdose is never fun

Fa la la la la, la la la

Especially at half past one

Fa la la la la, la la la

 

 

Traffic stop, to be proactive

Fa la la la la, la la la

Sure enough a warrant active

Fa la la la la, la la la

 

It won't get that cop promoted

Fa la la la la, la la la

When they find out he has COVID

Fa la la la la, la la la

 

 

Working all night, on through Christmas

Fa la la la la, la la la

Sure do hope the family missed us

Fa la la la la, la la la

 

We won't join in with the choir

Fa la la la la, la la la

Unless they catch their tree on fire

Fa la la la la, la la la

 

When we get home and we're tired

Fa la la la la, la la la

Can't sleep because we're still wired

Fa la la la la, la la la

 

Family members give you some cheer

Fa la la la la, la la la

Save your stress until the New Year

Fa la la la la, la la laaaaaa........

 



 

Remember, every time you don't buy a book, the Grinch steals a tree.

National Emergency Telecommunicators Week is this week. It's a tough time for emergency services this year, so I figured I should write something original, to talk about the times we live in.

 But I didn't, so part of this is an update to a blog I wrote in 2017. (I wonder if anyone would have noticed? Too late.)

 

In 1991, after an unfortunate encounter with a teething baby, a Congressman from Delaware became the very first person to yell, "What's the number for 911?"

Okay, I was kidding about the baby: He just wanted to complain that the Congressional Dining Room coffee had gone cold. Still, he made a basic mistake that led to a delayed emergency response: He tried to dial "nine eleven".

In an effort to get the word out that the number for 911 is "nine one one", Congress declared the second full week in April to be National Public Safety Telecommunications Week. (They declared the third full week of April to be Teething Baby Awareness Week.)

 Indiana made that same declaration in 1999, and this year it's April 12-18. That's why, being a public safety telecommunicator myself, I tried to take that week off.

I mean, it was my week, right? Daiquiris in Hawaii for all dispatchers! But it turns out emergency dispatch centers have to be manned 24 hours a day, something they didn't tell me when I signed on.

(Okay, it's possible they did tell me that. It was twenty-eight years ago--and while I haven't slept well since then, I have slept.)

Personally, I would have called it Emergency Dispatchers Week. It's not quite as accurate, but it's shorter. But no Congressman ever used one word, when a paragraph would do. In bigger dispatch centers, one dispatcher might take 911 calls, another might page out ambulances, a third radio police, a forth may be dedicated to fire departments, and so on. In a smaller dispatch center (like mine), the dispatcher might do all those.

 

 

They might also enter calls into the computer, do other computer work like arrest warrants, stolen vehicle calls and missing persons reports, run licenses for traffic stops, and take business line calls. They might empty the trash, make coffee, and operate the security doors for the county or city jails. They might set off the local tornado sirens (hopefully during tornado warnings). They might enter missing person and Amber Alert reports into national databases, try to talk down suicidal people, or talk somebody through doing CPR on their loves ones. They might have to do any combination of the above at the same time.

So "dispatcher" doesn't really cover it.

Part of the time you don't really need all the people who work in a dispatch center. The rest of the time you need three times as many. Sadly, no one has yet come up with a way to predict which time will fall at which--well--time. But there are certain ways to tell if it's going to get busy:


If you just heated up your meal.

If there's a full Moon, regardless of what the research "experts" say.

If some moron just said, "Say, it's been quiet tonight".

If you just realized your bladder is screaming at you to take a break.

 

 

In the emergency services, breaks are just an obscure theory. They're best taken at the dispatch console, with a microwave nearby. My record for reheating soup is eight times, but hey--I'm a slow eater, anyway.

When 911 calls you away from that already lukewarm chimichanga, it might be to help someone whose little toe has been hurting for three days. Or, it might be that you're about to become the very last person someone ever talks to. Not knowing is a large part of the stress.

I'm told the average career length for a 911 dispatch is 7-10 years, give or take. If you do it longer than 10 years, you qualify as legally insane. I've done it for more than twice that long.

In that time, some of the really serious stuff has actually been the easiest. Your house is on fire? Send the fire department. You're having chest pains? Send an ambulance. Many of my least favorite calls come in on the non-emergency line, and start with "Can I ask you a question?" In my business, there's a fine line between "question" and "complaint", but either way it's bound to end up being one of those head scratchers.

There's also the fact that many 911 calls aren't emergencies, and sometimes business line calls are.

So yeah, I think it's great that people in this job get a week of their own--they earned it. Last year we got a lot of attention, from individuals, businesses, and organizations that not only thanked us, but showered us with free food and gifts ... which is very cool, because according to the research I just did, my household is holding onto the lower edge of middle class income by our fingernails. This year, with the coronavirus and general ick going on, I don't think we even advertised our upcoming week.

You have to be careful with those treats, anyway. Two years ago I brought a great treat bag home, and the dog ate it. But has he taken a single 911 call? Noooooo......

 

 

 

I read once that the average 911 dispatcher works in the field for about seven years before calling it quits. My (now former) boss worked in the field for 35 years. He's one of the few who actually retired, rather than moving on to a different job.

The man's crazy.

 

That's Mitch Fiandt on the left in this picture, with me in the middle and my immediate boss, John Urso, on the right. (The photo is of me getting recognition for 25 years of service, which makes me almost as nuts as Mitch is.)

Rather than repeat all the facts and figures, here's an article about his retirement:

https://www.kpcnews.com/albionnewera/article_91d70e1a-11ca-5e25-8c16-d24583d57a6f.html?fbclid=IwAR21s72jnYfBAdDwAsWoKpla7Lr7i5VNVYusYeiigJz7uQlZYLDrKe-LFBk

I believe I first met Mitch at a burning building. Let me clarify: At the time we were volunteer firefighters on neighboring departments, which perhaps should again lead you to question our sanity. Later he moved and joined my fire department. He also became assistant director of our communications center just a year after I joined the Sheriff Department as a jail officer. Like him, I went from the jail to dispatch, and so up until now he's been only the second person in charge of dispatch since I got there, a quarter of a century ago.

So ... yeah ... feelin' a little old.

It seems to me the only job more stressful than a 911 dispatcher is the boss of the 911 dispatchers. Oh, there are more stressful jobs, I assume: bomb disposal expert; Alec Baldwin's anger management coach; anything Mike Rowe does. I've been told twice that trained monkeys could do my job, both times by people who wouldn't make it through fifteen minutes of a Friday night shift in dispatch. Heck, they probably wouldn't make it through ten minutes on a Wednesday in October.

But at least I can (mostly) let it go at the end of the shift, go home, and think about other things. I don't have to worry about the off-duty ringing of the department cell phone. I'm a simple third shifter: I don't get involved in funding, hiring, training, scheduling, technology, dealing with government entities from townships on up to the Feds, and the constant, constant, meetings.

I hear a lot of armchair quarterbacking about my job, from people who don't know a football from a foosball. It's why I tried not to spend a lot of time second-guessing Mitch's job. I never wanted someone to say, "Fine: You try it."

In a profession where most people don't last long enough to take retirement pay, he made it through almost three dozen years. Mitch Fiandt earned his retirement. Congratulations, Mitch: I'd imagine you need the rest.

Although I've heard his wife has a long "honey-do" list, so maybe he'll come back.

I've been taking 911 calls for so long that they were originally 91 calls.

Well, it seems that way, anyway. It turns out National Public Safety Telecommunicators Week predates my full-time employment in the emergency services by ten years, and can we possibly shorten that name down a bit? By the time I finish saying National Public Safety Telecommunicators Week, the week is over. I'm going to call it ... NPSTW. I know somebody who got their Bachelor Degree at NPSTW, although they've since married. Go Bulldogs!

Anyway, I started with the Noble County EMS as a seventeen year old trainee in late 1979, and joined our volunteer fire department in 1980. But it wasn't until December, 1991, that I took an actual paying job in the area of emergency services, as a jail officer with the Noble County Sheriff Department.

Within a few years I got tired of getting sick all the time. Seriously: Those inmates breathed so many germs on me while getting booked in, I thought I was in a sequel to The Andromeda Strain. So I went into dispatch, trading physical ailments for mental ones.

Unknown to me, way back in 1981 Patricia Anderson, of the Contra Costa County Sheriff's Office in California, came up with this idea to give tribute to, um, NPST, or as I'm going to call them, dispatchers. Yes, I know "dispatchers" doesn't tell the whole story, but my typing fingers are tired.

Oh, who am I kidding? All of me is tired.

Isn't it something? I've been here for almost twenty-eight years, and dispatching for about twenty-five of those. I've been here so long that when I started we had only one computer, to get information such as license plate and driver's license returns, using DOS.

Get your grandparents to explain DOS to you.

My wife points out that taking information was difficult back then, because we had to received 911 calls by smoke signal, while carving words onto stone tablets. I'm fairly sure she was kidding.

I've been here so long I could take full retirement at the end of this year. Full retirement pay! Sadly, I haven't figured out how to make up the difference in income, but I'm hoping my book sales will pick up. The good news is we don't make all that much to begin with, so the loss of income wouldn't be so much of a shock ... but it would be tough learning to sleep through the night.

While I joke about it--mostly to keep from crying--things really were easier back then, when it comes to learning the job. Our computer systems do make it easier to help people these days, but astronauts don't train as much as our rookies do. Spaceship vehicle pursuits are faster, though. The point is, I'm not sure I could make it through training, if I started today.

We had one the one small computer screen when I started. Now I'm looking at seven flat screen monitors, not including the security and weather screens. Our report was written (in pen) on a single piece of paper about half the size of a standard sheet. Today we have a Computer Aided Dispatch (CAD), radio screen, phone screen, mapping screen, recorder screen, 911 texting screen, and a screen to keep track of everyone's duty status. We also have a screen to keep track of screens. Those are just the ones we use regularly.

Me, I'm pretty burned out at this point, and some of our calls can get rough. I have all the symptoms of PTSD; some of them include:

Experiencing a life-threatening event, like when the dispatch pop machine ran out of Mountain Dew;

Flashbacks and nightmares, such as reliving the night we ran out of Mountain Dew;

Avoidance, such as staying away from places that don't have ... well, you know.

Depression or irritability, which I just now realized might be related to consuming too much caffeine;

Chronic pain ... wow, that one hit me like a pulled back muscle.

You know, looking down that list you have to wonder, as I check off each and every box: avoidance, numbing, flashbacks, being on edge, overeating ... HEY! Who the HECK took my meatball sub out of the break room fridge! I'm HUNGRY!

Where was I? Oh, yeah. You have to wonder:

Why the heck am I still here?

Here's the thing. I've worked in retail; in factories; as a security guard and jail officer; as a radio DJ; I once made two bucks an hour growing worms for fishing lure. And for all the emotional turmoil, all the mental stress, all the physical ailments, all the days when I wanted to scream, and so desperately wanted to NOT go back into work the next shift ...

Dispatching is still the best full time job I've ever had.

Of course, I'm not a full time writer, yet. And for that I'd only have to deal with one computer screen.

This is Public Safety Telecommunicator Week, and it turns out I'm a PST! And here you thought PST was one of those diseases they advertise pills for on late night TV. So, while the job has its stresses (and how), we showed up at work Monday night to find some of our favorite signs of appreciation:

 

My wife gave me permission to eat two.

 

I had the Railroader. It's working up a head of steam as we speak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is Public Safety Telecommunicator Week, and it turns out I'm a PSF! And here you thought PSF was one of those diseases they advertise pills for on late night TV.

 

My full time job is as a 911 dispatcher, which is, shall we say, stressful. Mentally, emotionally, and even physically stressful, but at least we don't have to work outside. Personally, by the time I'm finished with my four day rotation I'm bent like a pretzel and popping pain pills the way I'd like to be popping M&Ms.

We work a four day on, two day off rotation in my emergency communications center, which means every six weeks we get a weekend off. That's nice, but I also work nights, so whenever my days off are--I usually just want to sleep through them.

Still, days off are nice. There was one month late last year when I didn't get any.

Okay, that's a slight exaggeration. We introduced a new computer aided dispatch system, otherwise known as a CAD, a system that--well, you know--aids us in dispatching. And every dispatcher had to take a three day course in learning the system, a class sandwiched between the online course we had to take before and the practice we had to do after. But you can't just shut down an emergency communications department--well, you can, but it's not a swell idea. So instead, the class was divided up, with the dispatchers who weren't taking it at the time covering for the dispatchers who were.

When you combine that with the fact that two new dispatchers were still training, you get overtime.

So last September I worked 21 out of 22 days in a row. Which is just three weeks, so I did get days off that month. Not to mention I volunteered for a lot of that time, because our bosses don't generally force us to work on our days off. (Nights off, for me.) We do have to work over or come in early from time to time, as with this week--somebody has to do it. Others worked for me during my class, after all.

Twelve hour shifts get ... tiring. I'm not a fan. But I'm not making minimum wage for mucking hog barns, so what the heck.

But here's the thing. I got around 56 hours of overtime in two weeks, give or take--I'm not really clear on how it added up that day when I got off work at 5 and went back in at 11. I mentioned all this to an online group of dispatchers, and got their side of it.

44 hours of overtime, in one pay period.

73.5 total hours--in one week.

53 hours of OT in a pay period. 60. 88. 49. 71. 63. In one pay period. A pay period is usually two weeks. One dispatcher worked 134.75 hours during Hurricane Florence.

911 dispatch centers are chronically understaffed. The hours are crazy, the training is hard, and the stress can be incredible; this leads to people leaving, which leaves those left behind working long hours and training new people, which leads to them burning out and leaving ... and on and on. I'm of the opinion that anyone who lasts long enough to retire, like my boss and (in a year) me, are certifiable.

 

But where I work we have good, dedicated people, and the OT isn't nearly as bad as many other communications centers. This brings me to something I've always said, something we should all keep in mind. We all have problems, and they're legitimate problems. We all have complaints. I had a lower back injury three months ago that just does not want to heal up--apparently it has to do with this concept of not being as young as I used to be. You think I don't complain about that?

Just the same, I think there's one concept worth considering, something that might make us feel a bit better when we're tempted to complain:

It could be worse.

After all, I could be the one having to call 911.

I heard a noise last summer and looked around the corner to find a truck parked in my back yard.

 

 

 

A lot of the utility workers from around here are down in the southeast right now, trying to repair all the infrastructure damage done by Hurricane Michael. They're putting in some long, long hours, a long way from home.

 

On more normal days these are the guys who keep my computer and TV running, not to mention, oh, lights and heat. Speaking as a person who once, as a lad, tried to dig a piece of bread out of the toaster with a fork, I wouldn't take their job for love or money. (The toaster won.)

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