My rescue squad raises a major chunk of its operating expenses through private donations, necessitating a large fundraising effort every year. I don't know why this is; perhaps as a means of avoiding excessive control by government authorities after accepting tax money. Who knows. Some folks say the squad has a reputation for being one of the best in the region -- some say the country -- and whatever must be done to maintain this is okay with me. [Predictably, the rep comes with a dark side: some other talented and hardworking EMS providers in the area say my squad has a towering case of holier-than-thou syndrome. I've heard the title "the God squad" applied to us in less-than-complimentary tones.]

The upshot of this fundraising system is that the squad employs its members as the front line solicitors for contributions. The annual "fall drive" is a long-standing institution at the squad, and the source of a significant proportion of our funds. The rule is simple: raise the designated minimum amount from the communities we serve, or the squad boots you out. It's harsh, but it works. For a group of volunteers who have already demonstrated their willingness to devote their time and energy for the honor of responding to other people's emergencies, this is but an element of the responsibilities that go with Belonging.

The squad is an amazing creature. It would make a fascinating study in the sociology of volunteer organizations -- research that I continually undertake on an amateur basis. I've already noticed my strange new tendency to refer to the institution with the pronoun "us." At a profound level, I have begun to accept that I am no longer an impassive observer, and have begun to integrate my notions of self with the group. It belongs to me, and I belong to it. It feeds me, and I feed it. So I walk down suburban Maryland streets in my uniform, carrying a bale of brochures, knocking on each door to ask if the residents would care to support "our" important work in the coming year.

To cover the entire service area, the squad uses a sophisticated system in which maps of the area are assigned to the various night crews; individuals sign up for a particular street or section. We write our names on the return envelopes in which people mail their contributions, and the squad uses this to track each member's individual total. Everyone's sum-to-date is posted on a spreadsheet in the hall outside the kitchen, and updated daily. I was relieved to note, on a recent perusal of the tally sheet, that my paltry $150 still beats a large number of members, who haven't yet broken out of zeroland.

[Some other fire and rescue services in the vicinity have hired outside agencies to raise money for them. Word is that fundraising companies can pocket up to 40% of the take. To use the first-person plural pronoun, "our" squad puts 97% of the money raised directly into the budget -- the remainder goes to publicity and other expenses of the fundraising efforts. "God" squad or not, it's refreshing to work with an organization that frequently surpasses my expectations.]

So it is that I wander around the suburbs, ringing doorbells like some sort of overgrown seller-of-girlscout-cookies. Most folks are terribly nice. They know the drill -- people in squad uniforms have been knocking on their doors annually for countless years. Asking them for moolah isn't so very painful. A few of them have encountered the squad under unpleasant circumstances, as patients, and seem pleased to contribute. One woman confides that her husband gets home late from work and that when she saw me at the door, she thought the worst. She's positively thrilled that I'm soliciting contributions instead of reporting a terrible accident.

Oddly, I find myself eking some enjoyment out of my door-to-door duty. People I pass on the street smile and say hello. They're greeting the uniform more than its inhabitant, but I return the greeting in a professional, uniformed-person kind of way. It tickles me that I somehow have come to inhabit this costume representation of competence and good judgment. As I stand at the doorways talking to people about the squad, I become more comfortable talking about the squad as "we." "Our" activities, our work. I quit at the end of the block, and drive home, but the "we" somehow stays with me.