By Tabitha Evans Moore | EDITOR & PUBLISHER

Less than a week ago, the unthinkable became reality in another small town in Southern Middle Tennessee. In Cornersville just an hour away, every member of their all-volunteer fire department resigned, leaving around 500 households a lot less safe than they were the day before.

According to multiple reports, Fire Chief Matt Fox submitted his resignation to the Mayor and  Board of Alderpersons on November 9 citing burnout as well as lack of resources and support. His six-person crew went with him.

Just like that, an entire fire department disappeared – leaving the town without its principal first-line fire-protection resource.

Like Cornersville, Metro Moore County also depends on a mostly all-volunteer fire department, the Metro Moore County Volunteer Fire Department (MMCVFD), made up of men and women who drop everything anytime the tones go off – leaving us with the question: could it happen here?

No State Mandate

To understand the state of rural fire departments in Tennessee, one must first examine why something as essential and dangerous as firefighting gets left to volunteers in the first place.

The answer sits at the intersection of state law, local governance, and rural economics.

In Tennessee, fire protection isn’t guaranteed by the state. It’s a local choice – and for many small towns, a costly one. Under state law, municipalities and counties can decide how to provide fire services, whether through a paid department, a volunteer force, a nonprofit, or even by contracting with a neighboring district. There’s no requirement that a town maintain a staffed department at all.

That’s why most rural communities, like Moore County, rely on volunteers. But that model, once sustainable, is showing cracks. As training, insurance, and equipment costs rise, the line between “volunteer” and “underfunded professional” gets thinner by the year.

The recent resignations in Cornersville underscore that tension. When an entire volunteer department walks away, it doesn’t just leave a town without fire protection – it exposes a much larger truth about rural Tennessee: many communities depend on goodwill to perform what are, in practice, professional services.

The Metro Moore County Paradox

Metro Moore County is one of the smallest and wealthiest counties in the state – at least on paper. The Jack Daniel’s Distillery, Motlow State Community College, and a handful of high-income households drive up the county’s per-capita income. That number looks great to grant agencies but hides a different reality: a small population and limited tax base.

Because Moore County operates as a metropolitan government, there’s only one budget and one set of taxpayers covering everything – from schools to roads to fire protection. There’s no “city” to share the load. Meanwhile, the high average income disqualifies the county from many forms of state and federal aid intended for low-income or distressed communities.

In short, Moore County is often too rich to qualify for help but too small to afford big-city services on its own. That leaves essential services like the volunteer fire department operating in a narrow gap – supported by dedicated locals, some county funding, and a lot of hope.

In this year’s Metro Budget, the total MMCVFD allocation is just a little over $158,000 with one lone paid position, fire chief. Longtime Fire Chief Mark Neal resigned in September and Metro EMA’s Hunter Case has taken over as interim chief.

By comparison, that allocation represents less than two percent of the overall Metro budget – a small slice for a service that protects nearly every home, business, and barn in the county.

The MMCVFD currently enjoys a squad of nearly 20 firefighters – down eight from the previous year, according to MMCVFD Engineer John LaCook. Between calls and training, LaCook estimates that each spends around 20 hours away from their families and friends to make sure someone answers Moore Countians calls in their worst moments.

On average each requires around $5,000 in turnout gear to do the job. Metro supplies that gear and luckily earned a grant just a few years ago to replace outdated gear.

“It’s not about having nice gear,” he says. “It’s about dependability. Dependability is huge. When you enter a burning house, you want to make sure you have top-notch, state-of-the-art equipment to both fight for your life and maybe save a life.”

LaCook says that Metro Moore County is blessed because if there’s a dire need that the Metro budget can’t cover, the distillery often steps in.

Potential unintended consequences

If Cornersville’s mass resignation sounds far-fetched, it shouldn’t. The same financial and structural pressures exist here – only hidden by a well-run department and a fiercely committed group of volunteers.

It’s a tenuous scenario for a tiny community with warehouses full of accelerant and million-dollar lake homes. When a community like Cornersville or Lynchburg loses its fire protection, there are lots of unintended consequences. It’s not only a dangerous but also expensive situation.

If a community doesn’t have its own fire department – or if it’s located far from the nearest one – home insurance rates typically increase significantly.

Insurance companies use something called an ISO Public Protection Classification (PPC) system, rated from 1 to 10. Class 1 means excellent fire protection and low premiums. Class 10 designations are for communities with no recognized fire protection. They pay the highest premiums.

It’s one of the reasons that the distillery utilizes their own separate fire department, The Jack Daniel’s Fire Brigade, who respond as mutual aid partners to the MMCVFD in most situations. Of the nearly 20 volunteer firefighters at the MMCVFD currently, nearly half also serve on the Jack Daniel’s squad.

And there are other unintended trickle-down effects. Lack of adequate fire protection can lower home appraisals and cause banks to undervalue property or require higher down payments.

People relocating from urban or suburban areas expect fire service; rural homes without it can linger on the market or sell below comps. Builders avoid projects where insurance or liability costs eat into margins.

Under mutual aid agreements, surrounding counties would respond, but response times could double or triple. More structure fires could jump to wildland or forest fires, creating regional hazards. As every fire fighter will tell you, when attempting to contain a fire, every second counts.

It could also result in less rural entrepreneurialism. Many small or rural businesses can’t afford commercial policies in Class 9–10 zones, discouraging entrepreneurship. Local tax base erodes as fewer businesses and homeowners settle there, creating a self-reinforcing decline in services.

Those practical consequences are only one part of the story. The other is cultural – and it runs much deeper.

The Reciprocity Gap

In past generations, service was repaid in kind. You showed up when the fire whistle blew, and your community showed up for you. Fundraisers filled the station, families brought casseroles, and teenagers grew up watching their fathers and mothers volunteer, waiting for their turn. That was the social contract – the energetic loop of small-town life.

But today, that loop is fraying. The same families who built these institutions are aging, and younger residents often work out of town, or are too busy or burned out to pick up the torch.

Of the 20 firefighters currently, only one is under 30 years old.

“We don’t have anyone coming up. They’re not knocking down the doors to get in to volunteer,” LaCook says. “They’re not asking questions. The most common thing I hear is: why would you want to do something you don’t get paid for?”

The costs – both financial and emotional – now fall on fewer shoulders. The system depends on reciprocity, but modern life doesn’t always allow it.

And as Moore Countians face rising costs – from groceries to healthcare – fewer have the margin to donate or volunteer the way earlier generations did.

It’s a reality the department itself also faces. LaCook says the same fire engine that cost $250,000 just a few years ago, now boasts a $1 million price tag.

“Where do these small towns get this money?” he asks. “With the exception of our newest truck, we’ve got 30-plus-year-old trucks. The one at Station 5, I think, is a 96 model.”

Interestingly, the line item for new vehicles in the fire department’s FY2025-26 budget is zero.

“We make do,” he says. “That’s what all volunteer departments across the nation do. You make do with what you have.”

Exhaustion, Underfunding, and Silence

Moore County’s challenge mirrors Cornersville’s: both rely on volunteers willing to give more than they get. The difference is that Cornersville’s collapse made that imbalance visible. Ours, so far, remains invisible – quietly sustained by the people who still believe service is sacred.

“It’s just in your DNA,” LaCook says.

In addition to fighting local fires, the MMCVFD often arrives first of scene at motor vehicle accidents and do all the extrication in the county, according to Interim Chief Case. They are respond to search-and-rescue incidents where every second counts.

“Losing the department for the county would have major negative impacts for the citizens of the county when it comes to life and safety,” Case says. “We have an awesome group of volunteers who devote many of their own hours and also continuously train to be prepared to help when the time arises.”

Maybe the “what if” we should be asking isn’t just about fire protection, but about the deeper understanding that’s always held small towns together –that safety, belonging, and resilience only exist when everyone contributes something. One sided relationship rarely last.

If Cornersville’s story is a warning, it can also be a lesson. The collapse of its volunteer fire department didn’t happen overnight – it was the slow result of exhaustion, underfunding, and silence. The antidote isn’t blame; it’s acknowledgment.

Cornersville’s story reminds us that every small town runs on a kind of unspoken agreement – a promise that if you show up for your neighbors, they’ll show up for you. That promise has kept us safe for generations. The question now is whether we can keep it going. •

About The Lynchburg Times: We’re independent, reader-supported, and proudly homegrown. We hold the history, relationships, and journalistic craft to deliver professional reporting from one of America’s tiniest and most famous towns. Because of that, there are some stories you’ll only read in The Lynchburg Times. Every dollar of reader support stays right here in Moore County, funding local writers, photographers, and storytellers. When you support The Lynchburg Times, you’re not just backing a newspaper — you’re preserving the art of storytelling in the South. [Join us here.]