On two corners of Fourth Avenue South, just south of Broadway, identical 6-by-3-foot signs are planted, with large letters announcing: “Coming in 2006, A Concert Hall for Nashville, Future Home of the Nashville Symphony.” The building behind those signs is Fire Station 9, also known as “The Bottoms,” the century-old name of the downtown plot of land where it stands. The original fire hall, which stands 50 feet to the south, dates to the early ’30s and is currently used as a repair, refurbishment and storage facility. The fire hall now in use was built in 1984.
Thanks to its history, location and size—and its capacity to respond to everything from major fires to a child suffering an asthma attack in the nearby projects to a drunk passed out in a downtown bar—Station 9 is one of the busiest and best-known fire halls in the city, a draw for firefighters who bid for the assignment. Ironically, the location has also proved to be its death certificate. As a highly visible resident in the emerging arts and entertainment district—rechristened SoBro—that also includes the arena, the Hilton Suites and the Country Music Hall of Fame, an aging fire hall doesn’t carry quite the glamorous cachet of a sparkling-new $75 million concert hall. Though the symphony must raise the funds to build the hall, the city of Nashville is donating the infrastructure and the fire hall property. Station 9 suspected it was coming, but the announcement of the decision in late February was still a blow to current and former firefighters there, and the signs are a daily reminder that this chapter of the hall’s story is coming to an end. It will likely be the spring of 2003 when Station 9 moves temporarily to a city-owned building on Hermitage Avenue, across from the old General Hospital. A new permanent facility will then be constructed in a still undecided location.
Inside the large bay of Station 9 is Truck 9, Engines 5 and 9, and a utility truck. Inside the hall itself are the men assigned to those vehicles from 6 a.m. to 6 a.m., every third day. On every 24-hour shift—dubbed A, B or C—at least 11 men are on duty. On a rainy Wednesday afternoon, with no one out on a call, it’s business as usual inside Station 9. A-shift firefighters are puttering around in the bay, taking a nap in one of the sleeping rooms or piddling around on a computer in the back common room. Still, much like my house and probably yours, the heart and soul of this house is the kitchen. A sturdy, Formica-topped wooden table, long enough to seat at least a dozen men comfortably, is scattered with sections of newspaper, one open to a half-finished crossword puzzle. A television mounted on the wall is tuned to ESPN. Men wander in, check the progress of whatever’s cooking, read a section of paper, argue the Titans’ chances in the upcoming game and wander back out again.
Jeff Piercey, who has served 11 years with the department, all at Station 9, and who made engineer of Truck 9 three years ago, is at the stove. It is a position he is not unfamiliar with. Though the men informally take turns, Piercey does a good share of the cooking. He humbly credits Biff Merrill, who spent 18 years at Station 9 before being promoted to captain in 1999, for the quality of the food. “He sort of set the tone for this hall when he was here, and we try to keep it going,” Piercey says, stirring a skillet of sauce.
“I used to cook breakfast and dinner every shift I worked at The Bottoms,” says Merrill, now based at Station 1. “I always took pride in my cooking. Anybody can cook from a can. But we try to do it right. If it takes all day to cook a pot of beans, then it takes all day. It’s not easy; you do all your regular stuff, and then cook for a dozen men. But I enjoyed it.”
There are five refrigerators in the kitchen—one for each shift, one for food from home and one that the shifts share in common. The three individual shift refrigerators are kept secure from trespassers with padlocks on the upper and lower departments. As well, there are three large cabinets—also padlocked—in the pantry. “If we didn’t do that, you wouldn’t have any of your food left after two days,” says Bubba Yarborough, one of three Bubbas on the A shift. “I lost a whole country ham once.”
The Fire Department furnishes every hall with only one refrigerator; each shift at Station 9 bought another for their own. There is a general fund for monthly trips to Sam’s Club to load up on paper goods, coffee and condiments. A voting procedure is followed for major hall purchases, such as the professional-caliber, cabinet-mounted potato slicer that B shift requested. “B shift eats a lot of potatoes,” notes Spud Wilkerson, whose nickname doesn’t necessarily indicate the same predilection.
Being on duty 24 hours means at least three meals at the hall. While someone occasionally rustles up some sausage and biscuits in the morning, dinner is the meal the men regularly cook and share. “It can be an ordeal,” Piercey says with a wry smile. “Trying to cook for 15 people and please them all is impossible. So you just go with what you want.” Whoever is cooking goes to the store; the A shift favors the Melrose Kroger. Later, they divvy up the cost per man and pay up.
Station 9’s A shift contributed dozens of recipes to A Collection of Firehouse Favorites cookbook, published in 2001 by the Box 55 Association, an auxiliary support group for firefighters. But none of those recipes were in evidence as Piercey cooked dinner two different nights last week. On Sunday, it was pork tenderloin, fried okra, creamed corn, pasta salad and rolls; Wednesday, it was spaghetti with a meat-and-mushroom tomato sauce and garlic bread.
Piercey gets an assist from his partners—one prepares the bread for the oven, another makes a big batch of sweet tea, another stirs the boiling noodles and another clears the table and wipes it down. At 5:30, over the loudspeaker, come the words: “Hey Adam.” That’s the insider signal that dinner is ready. One by one, the men take a plastic, platter-sized plate and a cup out of the cabinet, rinse them off—“You never know how well the last shift did the dishes,” one fireman says—and serve themselves from the pots and pans on the gas stovetop. Then they pull up a chair—no assigned seats—and chow down. An attempt at table talk by a visitor is politely but firmly rebuffed. “We usually don’t talk when we eat,” another says. If you’re a cook who’s always fishing for compliments, a fire hall kitchen is not your kind of place. A cleaned plate is all the positive reinforcement you’re likely to get.
On the other hand, should the criticism get out of hand, there is a vehement method of retribution for complainers, known as “breaking the plate.” Piercey explains: “Say somebody complains a lot about the food, or the price, or how long it takes to cook. They tell you in the morning they’re [going to be there for dinner], and you count on a certain number of people, then it’s time for dinner and they tell you they’re out, and then they don’t pay. Well, it eventually gets on your nerves, so you have to break their plate.” Bubba Derrick demonstrates, picking up a plate off the table and smashing it against a corner of the wall. Pieces of plate fly across the floor, and he picks one up. “We put their name on the biggest piece, and put it on the wall. That means he’s out, for good.”
Is there any way to get back in? “Well,” says Piercey, “you’d really have to beg and plead.”
As cook, Piercey doesn’t have to clean, a chore efficiently attended to by a couple of the other men. By 6:15, the table is cleared, dishes are washed and put up and leftovers are in bowls on a shelf over the stove for late-night kitchen foragers.
Chief Jordan Beasley, who began his career 38 years ago at Station 9 and is now safety officer for the city, dropped in for dinner that night and lingered at the table over some homemade chocolate chip cookies. “I used to cook here a lot, but once you make chief, you don’t really have the time anymore. Now I just eat everybody else’s cooking. You can count on a good meal at Station 9. There is so much tradition in this hall,” he says, getting up to take his cup to the sink. “It’s a real shame they’re tearing it down. I hate to see it go.”
