Firehouse

Some of my earliest memories as a child revolve around a firehouse. My father was a volunteer fireman in the Virginia town we lived in at the time. Now the memories are fragments - helping to wash the truck, hanging hoses, riding in the 4th of July parade, and the amazingly loud sirens. There was lots of laughter and joy associated with the work and my father seemed to love it - which meant that I loved it too. A lesson I hold close to this day. I also learned process. There was a rule - if they had a run while I was there, I was to stand in a certain spot of the house until the trucks were safely away. One time, being a veteran now of I guess 5-6 years of age, a call came and I stood where I knew I was safe - but it wasn't the spot. At the last second I hedged and ran to the spot, right in front of a truck about to pull out. I still remember that lecture when they returned. Couple of years later, we moved to California so my father could go to work in a family business. He still has his Helmet hanging on the wall of his office. It's funny what triggers memories. Recently, Southern California had another round of fires in the open scrub lands surrounding paradise. This time, it was fairly close to us and took a number of homes with it. Just about everyone in our circle of friends knows someone who lost. My parents house was close and my Sister-in-Laws house was within a block. The immediacy and randomness of it all can only be considered after. Through a connection and a favor, I was able to get access to the burned area before people were allowed to return. I stood in what was the living room of a home. Although the house was missing, the front lawn was fine. Power poles were being replaced as the bases were gone - they were hanging from the wires at top. Walking in the hills felt like winter as the ash crunched under foot like 6 inches of snow. Snow on the moon.