getting hired in the sixties

the beginning of my father as a fire fighter

When my dad quit his job at the marine slips the cabbie DeMott saw him kicking along Alderney Drive.

Where you after today Jimmy?

My dad told him about leaving a crappy job and needing another.

Well, I hear the fire department is hiring. Let’s go see.

DeMott rolled down to station 1 on King Street. There, my dad picked up an application. He filled it out in the cab. This was a Tuesday. He had an interview on Thursday and on the following Monday was told to go and see Mr. Spicer to be sized up for a pair of boots.

They were hiring fifteen guys. Sixty applied. Back then, the fire department was a lot like welfare. It was frowned upon. You needed grade 8 to get on. Having graduated with my grade 12, I was the Rhodes Scholar of the bunch.

My dad smirked.

Who was I? Some scrawny kid from the north end. I had no business being a firefighter.

At just barely 5’8” my dad was never big. Now in his seventies, I have a pretty clear idea of what he might have looked like before he filled out.

I had just h…