I was sitting in the bathroom flipping through his monthly International Association of Fire Fighters (IAFF) magazine. The back cover was dedicated to those who had lost their lives in the line of duty. It was titled "Last Alarm."
I had looked through the magazine many times over the years, but that day as I read through the list of names, I made the startling connection. These were real people, with wives and little boys and girls at home, just like me.
When my Dad came home in the morning after a night shift, he often smelled of smoke. I liked the smell, associating it with pleasant memories: the pile of leaves he and our neighbors often burned in the fall, or the smell of hamburgers on the grill and good times with our family and friends.
Now I realized the smoke meant that he had been inside a burning building, feeling his way around the dark smoke. Searching for people trapped in the heat and flames.
We always asked him how many "runs," (alarms), he had been on each shift. He would often tell us a few details, but never revealed his own fears, or close calls with death. I was proud to tell my friends about my Dad's exciting job. He was my hero.
We use that word, hero, so indiscriminately. Sports stars are often labeled heros, but what defines a hero? Running touchdowns and hitting home runs?
When they jump on the truck with sirens blaring, will this be their last alarm?
Wonderfully said.
ReplyDeleteI was always so proud of my Dad and Uncles growing up. Dad, too, would tell us some stories from his day but one thing that stood out was when a child was involved. We would see him come in and go straight to his and Mom's bedroom. He'd stay up there for a while, Mom telling us to "keep it down". And when he came down our hugs from him were tighter and a little longer than usual. No words needed to be spoken.
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