Sometimes when we push the switch that turns on the gas fireplace in our home, he’ll pretend he’s putting out the flames while aiming an imaginary fire hose.
When he’s backing up his rig, ‘beep, beep, beep’ he’ll make the sounds until satisfied with his parking effort.
Roaring out of the station (living room) with siren (pull-string bell) screaming, Engine No. 7 is answering the call, its driver outfitted from plastic helmet to rubber boots including a walkie- talkie that doesn’t connect to anyone – which, for him, is neither here-nor-there – and he confirms with dispatch he’s on his way.
Upon arrival at the blazing inferno he’ll mount his ladders (unless they’ve fallen off in route) and rescue whomever needs it.
At three-years old, Isaac, our grandson, idolizes his heroes who have a real red fire truck with real flashing lights, a siren and ladders that don’t fall off (they retract) in a real fire station just around the corner.
And yesterday, seated in his Christmas present he received from his adopted aunt, he pulled into Station 23.
But the big red fire truck was gone.
Someone needed them, and they’d responded.
We have been that someone.
They came when his grandmother was stung with so many bees she was slipping into anaphylactic shock.
They came, long before he was even born, when grandma-and-grandpa’s house caught on fire just before Christmas one year and very early that morning they hooked up their hoses to the fire plug right at the corner of their property, saving the structure. Though they would lose all their possessions, their cat and all their four children – one who would one day be his mother – were saved and insurance enabled the house to be rebuilt.
They came and assisted the family in grief and despair beyond description for which their hug in the hallway of their fire station more that served – much more – when words could not.
When the community was without electricity one cold week of Winter, their fire station generator was made available to plug in neighbor coffee pots.
When the cat, chasing a squirrel, got its big head stuck in the too-small hole of the decorative foundational brick of the house, they came and with Jaws of Life they set the cat free.
But this day, someone else needed their fire truck.
Disappointed, but knowing that might happen, we walked – Isaac peddled – the one block back home.
And then, we heard it, and saw it. The big red fire truck was coming down the street.
As fast as he could get his little engine (legs) cranked up, checking both ways for traffic and ringing his bell to send all imaginary vehicles to the side of the road, he commandeered the middle of the street and then the sidewalk (mom’s insistence) and arrived just mere minutes after they did.
At first, he was so awed at the size of the big red fire truck (just a single tire dwarfed both he and his rig altogether) and real firemen exiting that he just sat there and stared.
Then, his three-year-old pride at being behind the wheel of his own red fire truck kicked in and round-and-round he peddled furiously in tight circles, perhaps thinking not even their truck could do that.
That demonstration over, he pulled away to the sidewalk and sat. Didn’t ring the bell. Didn’t adjust the ladder that had come off again and was dragging the ground. His hands on the wheel, he just sat there as the fireman in charge approached.
‘Did you know we have ladders on our fire truck like you have on yours?’ the nice fireman said.
‘Would you like to see them?’
Yes, he would.
‘Do you have reverse on this fire truck of yours?’
Yes, he did.
‘Well, how ‘bout you put it in reverse and pull into the station? We have a special parking spot for you.’
So, there he was. His hand in grandmas, he looked up as they retracted the ladders.
They had a steering wheel like his too. And walkie-talkies that really worked. And head phones linked to a real dispatch person.
And then they got a call from that real dispatch person. Both fire trucks at that point pulled out of the station, and one, its siren blaring, horn blasting, lights spinning headed off down the street leaving the other little red fire truck and the little fireman standing awestruck beside it.
Someone needed them.
Delightful story and pictures, Dave! Glad I took the time to read about your handsome grandson’s adventure! Thanks!
Thank you Carol!
I come from a family of fire fighters. My older brother retired from the Rome, NY fire department (with injuries incurred fighting a major fire) after 30 some odd years. My dad was a fire inspector at Union College in Schenectady NY and always a volunteer fire fighter in our little town of Durhamville, NY. Isaac is right to idolize these heroes. We will all be able to rest assured when little Isaac grows up to become one of the men he worships! Good for you, little Isaac!
Wouldn’t that be fun to see Isaac, grown-up, fully attired in his uniform fire duds, sitting on the bumper of the fire truck he drives, along side the one he backed into the station as a three-year-old? Thank you for sharing of your own family heroes!
Ahhhh! Shades of the 1950’s and the dreams we too had as little kids.
I can’t remember back that far. I still, in fact, haven’t decided what I want to be when – and If- I grow up! 🙂
What an inspiration to this young boy who might one day follow that dream and these gallant men to this service. It’s not only children who are enthralled by these trucks and fire personnel. At one time in my 60s I bid and won an auction of a fire station tour and ride in one of our own local fire trucks. I was excited as any 3 year old. The power and sound and rumble can still enthrall. The life saving service they do is unmeasured as my husband benefited along the way. Thanks for the wonderful story. Secure your grandson’s ladders.
Ladders secured!
A charming photo essay!
Thank you Mary!