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| To join this site, click below, put add me in the subject line. You can also use this address to e-mail me. |
 
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| Wearing blue coveralls, they sit sometimes for days, laughing, eating, joking...waiting for one sound,
a siren that transforms them. They abandon their armchairs for overcoats of canvas and for rubber boots, their armor heavy and hot. Instead of trading jokes they relay directions, and orders, and shout reports of the status of the enemy; "FLAMES ARE VISIBLE" Fear and excitement grip the hearts of the freshest rookie to the oldest veteran as they jump into their steel Trojan horses perfect from polishing, washing, checking over and over-they pray that they have made no mistakes. The driver navigates the craft through the city streets he knows as well as his family, dodging when possible those that get in the way, hoping those he can't avoid will see him first. They spot the enemy from blocks away-- the phoenix rises far above the trees, licking the sky. They arrive at the scene, and again the battle cry is heard; "FLAMES ARE VISIBLE" Smoke fills the air and their lungs as they approach, hoses snaking, crisscrossing, coming to life as they surge with water from yellow and red hydrants that suddenly become grotesque heads of Medusa. They kick open the doors, rubber from their boots leaving a print melted by the heat, and trickling over bubbling paint. Orange liquid flames roll through the building, slithering up and over the walls, breathing in and out with each puff of air. With swords of water they charge and the war begins. They battle--nine or ten against one--seemingly great odds. But the nine soldiers will win, emerging from the battlefield victorious as they always do, and eventually, they'll retire to their armchairs, thanking God that this time nobody was hit by the enemy "fire"... |
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| For my brother and all firefighters |
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