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How It's Made |
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This 1930 New Yorker magazine article explains the history of the Cairns and Brothers Helmets.
The Eagle on the Helmet |
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In our simple, childish way, we always believed that the eagle
adorning a fireman's helmet meant something special the spirit of American
enterprise, maybe, or onward to victory. We were wrong. The eagle, it seems, just
happened, and has no particular significance at all. Long, long, ago, around 1825
to be exact, an unknown sculptor did a commemorative figure for the grave of a
volunteer fireman. You can see it in Trinity Churchyard today; it shows the hero
issuing from the flames, his trumpet in one hand, a sleeping babe in the other,
and, on his hat, an eagle. Now, nobody was wearing eagles at the time; it was a
flight of pure fancy on the sculptor's part, but as soon as the firemen saw it they
thought it was a splendid idea, and since every fire company in those days
designed its own uniforms, it was widely adopted at once. It has remained on
firemen's hats ever since, in spite of the fact that it has proved, frequently and
conclusively, to be a dangerous and expensive ornament indeed. It sticks up in the
air. It catches its beak in window sashes, on telephone wires. It is always getting
dented, bent and knocked off. Every so often, some realist points out how much
safer and cheaper it would be to do away with the eagle, but the firemen always refuse.
We learned all this about firemen's hats in the course of a little talk we had the other day with Mr. John Arthur Olson, of 183 Grand Street. Mr. Olson's father started making hats for firemen in 1867, and Mr. Olson himself has been at it all his life. Recently, he amalgamated with his only rivals, Cairns & Brothers, a few doors down the street; they comprise now the only firm in America in the business. Foreign firemen wear a metal helmet which weighs five pounds, but our fire laddies' hats weigh only thirty ounces. Despite this they give even better protection against falling bricks than the European ones do. They are made of stout tanned Western cowhide, a quarter of an inch thick, hand-sewed, reinforced with leather strips which rise like Gothic arches inside the crown, padded with felt. The long duckbill, or beavertail, effect which sticks out at the rear is to keep water from running down firemen's necks. Hats for battalion chiefs and higher officers, are white, everyone else's black. Hook-and-ladder companies have red leather shields (attached just under the eagle), engine companies black with white numerals, the rescue squad blue. According to Mr. Olson, there isn't much money in making firemen's hats. They sell for eight dollars and seventy-five cents, and as it is all handwork the profit is small. Besides, they last so long-about ten years, on the average. Matter of fact, the only thing that keeps the shop busy is the business of repairing the eagles, which are always coming in for regilding, refurbishing. For fixing eagles, the standard rate is one dollar, and has been for generations. |
Through the eyes of a helmet
Melanie Moran
Mostly people don’t think much about me: simply a “hat”. My real name is helmet. One person thinks a lot of me – my firefighter. We’re special friends. We know each other better for the moments we have shared. I’ve been with him from the urgent second the alarm bells ring, through the struggles of fire and smoke, exasperating attempts to rescue, relief when moments are quieter, disgust when nothing more could be done and sad times when for all our struggles, there were some lost.
My firefighter and I have had many talks. I’ve asked him why he gives up those better paying jobs with more benefits some our families would respect more, jobs in comfortable offices or business cars. I ask him why he works at a job where you are expected to work Christmas and other holidays assigned, why he works a job with long hours, often times roaring for action and other times when anxiety or tension are understatements. I’ve asked him why he goes into fire with the vast uncertainties
Implied.
Well, he told me what I have seen and felt before. In those moments when we enter a smoke filled nursing home searching for trapped persons with careful but urgent checking, seeing trampled bodies, destroyed memories and hysteria to spare, the vital importance of being there is the reason. We are given a rare opportunity to make a difference in what appears to be a hopeless situation. This is a privilege and we feel rewarded.
From the moment I rest on his head, I feel the adrenaline pulsing through him. I feel at home when my firefighter puts me on. We are a team I wouldn’t feel complete without him and he wouldn’t feel complete without me.
Now as I sit on the hook outside the firehouse, above the bay doors, I wonder why I rest here. I have not seen my firefighter to ask him.