FEBRUARY 25. 1982
High above the tallest building
in Wesleyville, at the top of a'
steel-ribbed tower, is the shining
red beacon of the Weslerville
Volunteer Fire Department. It is
an eye that never closes, a sentry
that never sleeps. It is the nerve
center where all fire, calls are
received, the alarm system that
alerts the every-ready
firefighters of Firehouse 403.
In the 100-year history of the
Wesleyville Fire Department,
there have been many tales of
glory, many instances of valor
for the men who risk their lives
constantly, who sacrifice their
safety for the jewels and
wristwatches they can jam in
their pockets as they pull people
from the fearful flames of certain
death. Yet no other tale speaks as
highly of their courage at the
story of the Bewley Brothers,
Dave arid Richard, who revolu
tionized firefighting to include
the wearing of women's
pantyhose.
Dave was the older, a stocky,.
muscular fellow with a fiery
temper and a penchant for throw
ing stray dogs in front of snow
removal equipment. His . strength
was legendary, it being told
throughout local .taverns that
Dave had once carried a preg
nant cow from a burning barn
and delivered her calf in the
'flickering light as the structure
collapsed beside him. All this
while drinking a case of beer. He
was a hero from North East to
Harborcreek, a man feared and
respected not only. for his
strength, but for his leadership
and outspoken manner at; local
town meetings.
It was through Dave Bewlay's
efforts that fire retardant
underwear became mandatoryin
all local rest homes. It was-also
he who won voter support to
strike down a levy. that would'
have allowed cheaper, generic
firefighting equipment to erode
the competency of his men.
"No way will we ride arOund in
a - white hook-and-ladder with the
words 'Fire Truck' written on the
side!" he shouted at the Bor
ow* Hall. Applause rang out
when he said that. It was a signal
that he bad won an important vic
tory, not only against the
bureaucratic minds of govern
ment officials, but a victory that
won the hearts of his fellow
firefighters as well. Dave Bewlay
was made Fire Chief that same
month, a position that enabled
him to carry out the programs
that had been a part of his vision
since he had been a child.
Being the -big-hearted man he
was, women and children
became his first concern. All
youngsters traveling to school
were urged to carry fire ex
tinguishers with them and to be
on the lookout for smoke inside
the automobiles of older, high
school. peers. A follow-up team of
special investigators and local
narc
.squads soon fireproofed
many students -whose grades
remarkably improved once the
heat was off.
Dave also carried out a one
man, door-to-door campaign,
usually during working hours, to
educate local housewives on the
hidden hot spots of their own
homes. He single-handedly made
sure every kitchen, den, and
bedroom was fireproof, sound
proof, and offered an easy route
of escape in case an emergency
arose. He was conscientious,
thorough, and well-loved in the
community.
Richard, his younger brother,
joined the department in 1974, the
same year I signed up. He had the
slim build ota middleweight box
er, dark eyes, and dark, wavy
hair that blew back whenever he
rode atop the pumper as it
screamed down Buffalo Road. He
was dashing, perhaps even a bit
of a show-off, but his enthusiasm
got us all. Behind him we'd rush
the flames,, resuscitated victims,
and relieved them of their per
sonal possessions - before 'they
came to.. He inspired us to
challenge ourselves, to be more
daring than we-thought we could
THE BEHREND COLLEGIAN
be. Like his brother, Dave,
Richard was a born leader. He
became the unofficial captain of
all our social activities, and it
seemed only a 'natter of time
before he'd succeed his brother
as Fire Chief.
Richard's youth and vigor
came second only to his generosi
ty. I never met a kinder man. It
was nothing for him go to to the
hospital, night after night, re
maining at the bedside of a
recovering woman. In one year
alone he must have saved 40 to 50
girls, performing mouth-to
mouth on them and staying with
them through the painful stages
of recovery: His sincerity was
perceived by others, and it was a
common occurrence for him to
leave a softball game or poker
hand, merely to tend the emo
tional wounds of a patient or a
nurse who had called. I didn't en
joy it when he was my pinochle
partner, but what could I do? He
was popular.
But popular or not, courageous
or not, we all got ptit to the test of
the night of May 3rd. Fire broke
out at the old Bailey place, a - huge
farmhouse off Reese Road. It was
a six-company alarm, with Dave
in his 4x4 getting there moments
before the first truck screeched
in. Yellow flames were licking
out the windows, and a black
cloud of smoke billowed from the
roof and blotched out the moon
above us. The heat blistered our
faces, making us squint or shield
ourselves with our forearms, but
already Dave,had loaded two
stereo speakers in the back of his
truck.
I saw the limp form -of old Mr.
Bailey on the ground beside the
tool shed. I rushed over to check
his pulse. "He's still alive!" I
shouted, feeling the life-pump
working in his throat.
"Got his Master Charge and a
pretty decent Seiko," Dave called
back, patting his pocket before
putting on his mask. The smoke
was thick as night.
Already Richard was in full
gear t checking his tanks before
dashing through the front door.
Others followed, not knowing if
there was any chance of saving
the structure. Water hissed and
sizzled off the roof' as the hoses
poured forth. Glass shattered
from the heat, and the vacuum
sucked the flames from end to
end in the downstairs rooms.
When an axe blade broke an
upstairs window, we knew the
worst had happened. Richard and
two others were trapped. The
house was eating itself up, the
searing flames licking skyward.
the second floor about to collapse.
Mrs. Bailey and her daughter
appeared, being shielded by
Richard as he edged them to the
window. We scrambled for the
jumper's net, a circular disc of
reinforced concrete, with a
double-yellow line painted in the
center.
"Jump!" we yelled. Mrs.
Bailey hesitated, but when
Richard stood back to let the
flames ignite her nightie, she
flew down like a flaming mar
di allow someone was shaking
from a stick. Her daughter
followed too; but not before ban
ding over her charm bracelet to
Richard. We brought the ladder
in close for him and his men to
come down, just as the sound of
cracking timbers split the night.
"Couldn't get to the silverware,
but I think we got everyone out all
right," Richard said. Sweat drop
ped from his matted hair and roll
ed off his brow when he removed
his mask.
We froze when we heard the
scream. Upstairs, from the back.
"Holy God," Dave shouted. "So
meone's still up there!' He drop
ped his Miller's and dashed for
the door. The roof was crumbling
in.
"You can't go in there!"
Richard shouted. "Are you nuts?
Forget her. That place is ready to
go!" He turned to check our
frozen stares. "I said forget
her!" he yelled, running towards
the house. We jumped him and
tackled him to the ground.
"The silverware!" a voice
shouted from inside the flames.
Suddeilly the second floor gave
in. The roof collapsed next,
sliding forward like an iceberg
breaking off a glacier's edge.
There was a thunderous shower
of sparks and flying 'timbers. I
took cover, pressing my face to
the ground. When the roar had
finished, I raised my head to see
the sunken pile of embers that
was all that remained of the
Bailey place. There was no
chance for Dave.
That night, back at the
"My Baby Knows Hegel,
My Baby Knows Me"
On guard, Kerkegaard.
Philoso-Mate, a dating service
for frustrated philosophers, has
caught the attention of many
guys who want to get
metaphysical.
"I think, therefore I'm yours,"
is the painted slogan outside
Plato's Playpen, - an existential
singles' bar on the outskirts of
conscious-heavy Duke Universi
ty. The action inside is tailor
made for- relative pleasures, for
the man who's made his leap of
faith, and wants to leap into
something else.
"Camus for yciu!" the
waitresses yell as they engage in
a dialectic of swaying hips and
soft, subtle charm. Sartre Tarts
they're called, and it's rumored
that they're part of a scheme to
import entertainment for
philosphers tired of traversing
the Waste Land—at least alone.
"Call me an idealist, but I don't
firehouse, a somber mood per
vaded the air. We all sat on our
bunks; looking atthe floor,
unable to say anything. No one
touched a beer. Even Sparky, our
Dahnatian mascot, seemed to
share the loss of a Mutual friend.
He lay with his chin between his
paws, his eyes moist with the sor
row we all felt in that room.
Richard trudged up the steps,
his feet heavy with weariness and
the knowledge that it was he
who'd have to carry on. A penin
sula of sweat still clung to the
front of his tee shirt, and his eyes
were full of conviction as he
spoke.
"Dave's gone, and there's
nothing we can do about it," he
said, his voice almost cracking
with emotion. "But we can do
something for his memory, for
his spirit which keeps on living."
He took out a plastic.sg, opened
it, and unraveled a pair of nylons.
"He kept it a secret, but 'Dave
Bewlay wore pantyhose,"
Richard said. We listened atten
tively. Sparky cocked his head.-
"I don't know why," he went on,
"but a man does what he does
anyway. In honor of what he
meant to us, I want every man in
Firehouse 403 to wear nylons at
every fire we go to from now on.
As we put them on, we'll be
reminded of a man who gave his
life so that others may live."
I reached for a beer. It was a lot
to consider, but if they voted yes,
I sure wasn't going to buck the
crowd. And they did vote yes, op
ting to shave their legs on the 3rd
of every month, to commemorate
the night Dave Bewlay died.
Pantyhose brought a new spirit
to the men of 403. It replaced a
grief that was unnecessary, a loss
that should never be mourned.
They were also fun to wear, and
easier to take care of than the
asbestos liners we were always
drying out. Fighting fires became
more fun, with all of us getting a
chuckle when we watched the
eleven o'clock news, knowing
that we wore women's clothing
while saving all of those lives.
That was why Dave must have
worn them in the first place, as a
private monument to binncelf.
I'm not a firefighter anymore,
but I still keep my pantyhose in
my top dresser drawer. I'm also
sure that if I ever stop by
Firehouse 403, I'll see the rows of
nylons beside the stacks of smoke
masks and helmets. Dave
Bewlay never died; he's close to
every man who earls himself a
Wesleyville fireman, tugging at
his thighs as he climbs or chops
his way to firefighting glory.
think we're doing anything wrong
here," says Playpen owner Joe
Morrison. "No hanky-panky, just
meaningful discourse.' Joe
asserts that everything is on the
metaphysical level, and that he
even asked one philosopher to
leave because "the guy said
`Spinoza my nosa' to a bartender.
Heck, if a girl wants to say 'I
Kant,' she can."
While the entertainment is ex
is ten tia I , the prices are
downright empirical. Sisyphus on
the rocks will run your four
bucks, something to make most
patrons bead for the No Exit
door. Ethical or not, to pay or not
to pay might be the question,
although you are warned that a
man who jested that out loud was
tossed from the major premise,
swearing all along that he was
wondering whether or not to wear
his hairpiece.
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