Ode to a Fireman
My husband was a volunteer fireman back in the 80's. He later joined our local fire department full time and became a paramedic. Until yesterday, these were all fond memories. But as I have been saying, unpacking every box has brought back a flood of memories that I thought were filed away until that day when my life flashed before my eyes. OK, I am an avid watcher of Prison Break and was very intrigued with Monday nights story line. But that is another post...or not!
As we open every single box that we managed to acquire over the 36 years of marriage, we found another delight, my husband's fire gear. During his tour of duty with the department, his assigned number was 808. There were many a call when I sat at home listening to his radio in hopes I never heard "808 is down". Believe me, it was nerve wracking.
Often, all of the wives would go to our local grocery store during a terrible fire or storm to get hot coffee and donuts for the fire fighters. It was the least we could do to support not only our men, but also the community.
I enjoyed the close knit community of fire fighters and their families. After all, we were transplants from Chicago and we needed to make friends down in the South. Up until we moved out of the county, I would often see a fellow retired fire fighter in the local K Mart or grocery store. We would share the details of how our families have grown...Johnny is in the navy...Ann is in college...Steve is in culinary school. Ahhh...the memories...I'll have them forever.
The photo op was the idea of my husband. The helmet was way too heavy for little Jack to wear, so hidden behind the pillow of our living room, one old fire fighter is acting as a prop for his little grandson. Even to this day, an old fireman supports those not able to do for themselves.
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