He Will Always Be Cooksey to Me!

Some of my favorite childhood memories are remembrances of my dad in his role as a volunteer firefighter. Back in the day, we said fireman, so I’m, going to stick with that. My dad’s name was Robert Lee Cooksey. Dad had no first name with his friends, co-workers and family; he was always Cooksey.

We grew up on 58^th Avenue in Riverdale Heights, a small town in Prince Georges County, Maryland. Behind that childhood home was a one bay firehouse, which was the original Riverdale Heights Volunteer Fire Department (VFD). Eventually, a new “modern” firehouse was built a few blocks up the road.

As long as I can remember, my dad volunteered with Riverdale Heights, Company 13. The firehouse was a mystical place filled with shiny red Seagrave fire engines. The engines had really cool lights on the front that spun around as the truck roared to life to race down the road with the firemen hanging on the back to go and fight fires. Dad would take us to the station on many occasions and I can still remember climbing on the engine and pumper in the bays. I loved those old Seagraves with their unique spinning lights.

There was a siren on the roof of the firehouse. The siren would wail so volunteers could stop what they were doing and rush to hop into their running gear (boots, pants, coats, and helmets). The volunteers would then jump on to the back step of the fire truck and hang on to a bar as the truck sped to the call.

As kids, we thought seeing the trucks rush by was the coolest thing. If we saw our dad on the back step it was even better. The trucks would very often go past our house, as they headed to a main road. We would jump up and down waving and calling to dad and the other volunteers and they would waive back.

The volunteer Chief, Alex Hamilton and his wife Beverly lived just around the corner from us and they had a house with a pool in the backyard. Uber cool. One of our funniest memories was the day they had a party at the pool. The siren wailed, the men left the pool, jumped into their running gear in their swim trunks and went flying past our house. All we could see were bare legs between the hem of their running coats and the tops of their boots. We laughed like hyenas because it was pretty darn amusing.

Often, dad might miss the engines as they left the station and he would simply get his gear and follow in the car, or follow the smell of smoke. Many things could lead him to the burning house: smoke in the sky, the smell of the diesel engines of the fire truck, or water sloshed from the pumper as it turned corners on the way to the scene. Sometimes, mom would load us in the car and we too would follow the trucks to the scene as if it was a spectator sport.

I always remember one particular house fire where we followed the trucks. It is still etched in my mind, and that day it made me physically nauseous. We watched the flames lick through the roof, and I suppose I was just old enough to comprehend the horror of the family who was standing there watching their house burn. Suddenly, the joy of watching my dad hang on the back of the truck didn’t seem as much fun. It hit me that when he rode the truck there was a calamitous event unfolding at the end of the ride.

On that day, I realized that when he was hanging on the back of the truck whizzing past our house and waiving, it was because he was proud that he could help an unfortunate family. He was hoping the station could get to the scene in time to minimize the damage a family would suffer. That maybe, just maybe, he, along with the other firemen could help the family salvage a house and memories, and their sense of security they had in a home as a family unit. I am very proud of my dad because he rode in service, not because it was a lark or some crazy thrill.

Most of the VFD’s in the county had majorette squads and my sisters and I belonged to the majorettes for Riverdale Heights. Those were grand times of long weeks in Ocean City, Maryland for the Fireman’s Convention. We would march in the parade following along behind the fire trucks from our station.

It was on one of those summer vacations that my dad became violently ill. Dad had been out on the boardwalk eating raw oysters or clams at one of the stands that used to dot the boardwalk. Yup, he got a bad, bad case of food poisoning. I can remember my dad being so violently ill that we children were huddled together in one of the bedrooms of our rented apartment, wondering if he was going to die. He was so very, very ill. Mom was doing all she could to help him as he retched for hours. I look back now and wonder why we didn’t seek medical help, but I suppose in the early 60’s the luxury of an urgent care center didn’t exist.

The memory of that night is still as fresh in my mind as the day it happened. Maybe my siblings will remember it differently, but when we do talk about it, we all remember his suffering through the night. My sister Sue seems to recall that he did go to the hospital, but even she is unclear on those details.

Sue fortunately cleared up another dramatic event for me. It happened another summer during the fireman’s convention. Sue, dad, and my older brother Tommy went fishing one morning. I don’t remember if any fish were caught and brought home, but I do remember that dad sunburned the tops of his legs with third degree burns. That was not the era of SPF sunscreens, Coppertone existed, but I think it was like oil in a pan, fry baby fry.

Poor dad, he had blisters from his knees to mid thigh and in my mind they were as big as the Rockies. He was miserable. Dad was very fair skinned and his legs rarely saw sunlight. Dad had a farmer’s tan only. Needless to say, with the degree of the burns on his legs he was unable to put on long pants. The drive home after THAT memorable vacation was one painful long drive. The sun beating through the windshield hit him right on the burns, so mom put a damp towel over his legs and kept it damp for the ride home. Fortunately, like the food poisoning, the sunburned legs healed, and dad was back to his same old jaunty self.

A few years later, we moved from the house on 58^th Avenue to a much larger house in Lanham, Maryland. Dad continued to participate with Riverdale Heights VFD, however he was not able to jump and run for fire calls, as we were no longer close to the station.

And then, low and behold, West Lanham Hills VFD announced they would be building a sister station on Good Luck Road a short two blocks from our house. The station would be Station 48, which meant it was the 48^th VFD to be built in Prince Georges County. The first WLHVFD is Station 28 and is located in of all places West Lanham Hills. Rather ingenious way of naming a fire station don’t you think? Name it after the town it is located in, downright novel.

It was with great anticipation that we watched the station take shape. Mom belonged to the Ladies Auxiliary at Riverdale Heights VFD, so she was looking forward to participating closer to home and dad was simply looking forward to chasing fires again. When the station opened, dad was there in the blink of an eye to join as a volunteer. We had a Claxton installed in the house and when there was a call for Station 48, that damn box would ring in our house with a noise that WOULD wake the dead. And, off dad would go, regardless of the hour, to ride the wagon to help to preserve a family’s home from the destruction of flames.

Dad was a charter member of WLHVFD and when he was eventually diagnosed with cancer it was this same fire station that would transport him to and from the hospital on the occasions he suffered debilitating effects of the disease. When a new engine was purchased for the station, the truck was dedicated to my dad and an engraved plaque was affixed to the door of the truck’s cab. It was that same fire truck that carried my dad during his funeral procession.

For dad’s funeral, the hoses were removed from the back of the truck and dad’s coffin was placed there instead. As with most firemen, dad was driven through an arch of ladders: two ladder trucks with their ladders extended across the roadway for the funeral procession to pass through. WLHVFD provided the first raised ladders and there was a second set of ladders as we proceeded to our church. That second arch of ladders was at Station 13, Riverdale Heights, dad's first VFD. And to our amazement, as we continued from the church to the cemetery, Forestville VFD had prepared another arch of ladders for dad’s procession to pass through. I thought it was a fitting end for a man who had spent so much time in the volunteer fire service.

I don’t know how many fire calls my dad responded to and I don’t know how many families took the time to thank my dad and his counterparts. My dad did not need thanks to be proud of his volunteer service. He loved the fire department family, the camaraderie, and the service to the community. I do know that every now and then, I think I can still see Cooksey hanging on the back of the wagon as it turns the corner on 58^th Avenue.

Regards,

the Widow Cooksey Fike