Moving on...

With Station 54 in my past, it became apparent I picked the right department to have on my volunteer firefighter resume when I decided to continue my fire service career. It wasn't difficult to decide to continue. I knew I  just couldn't get enough of the adrenalin that pulsed through my veins every time the pager beeped, or that firehouse siren wailed, calling us all to the apparatus for someone in need of assistance. The adrenaline and feel of heroism is what got me started, but it soon became the teamwork and comraderie that kept me there. A brotherhood was born which would last forever.

Moving forward, as I have said, was easy. So, I became an active member at the Brookhaven Fire Company, my local fire department, after having been a firefighter for several years where my friends had been running. Unfortunately I joined Station 52 with only my experience and knowledge from the many fire training schools I had already attended. Unfortunately, I didn't have the advantage of having friends at this station. I decided I wanted it bad enough, I went into it alone. It was at this station where I started attending their training nights, and more importantly, the small bonding sessions that followed in the firehouse bar. After a few of these bar nights, it became apparent who I was going to be close to, who would recognize me for my experience and not just treat me like the rookie off the street, who I could trust and who I had to watch out for.

Fortunately for me, the Fire Chief was a regular fixture at these bonding sessions. It didn't take long for the two of us to become good friends, trading war stories from our past responses. I couldn't top the number or excitement level of his, but I had enough from my years in the service that I could hold my own, as well as the attention and admiration of the others listening. It didn't take long for them to realize I wasn't just another new guy, and they began asking me questions about my past calls.

A note about these nights spent at the firehouse bar. It wasn't a case where all the firefighters would pull up a stool and drink until they couldn't walk. It was usually a one or two beer night after an exhausting training night, filled with laughs and good stories. We would all learn a little bit more about each other by the end of the evening, before we were all called back home by our wives, girlfriends or moms. And with each night spent there, we all began cementing the brotherhood that has lasted a lifetime.

My early days with Company 52 was filled with excitement. I just couldn't get enough of that place. The look, the feel, the smell, the men, the apparatus... I needed it all. It was my drug of choice, and I would stop everything to do it. Everything came second to responding to calls. Looking back on it many years later, I remember when the pager beeped, or the dispatchers on the scanner began announcing a call for Station 52, I was gone, immediately. I never waited to hear what the call was, I hit the ground running and never stopped until I was hanging off the back of a firetruck. Quite often, it wasn't until someone yelled over the wailing siren that I would realize it was a house fire, or car accident or brush fire. But back then, it didn't matter. If there was a call, I was going.

One day, while out in the car after being sent to get milk for my mother, I took the long way. Sure, I lived about three blocks from a 7-Eleven, but I drove across town to the store closer to the firehouse. And sure enough, as soon as the cashier handed the gallon to me, I heard it. The first of six cycles of the firehouse siren began winding up. I couldn't get to my car fast enough. I fumbled for the keys, scratched up the entire dashboard trying to find the ignition, then finally sped toward the station. As I sped down the back raod to get me there faster than the busy highway, I leaned down and began unlacing my shoes. I came to a screeching stop in the lot, pulled my shoes off and grabbed my milk. I can still see the look on the face of the guy to arrive right behind me, and the feel of the firehouse floor in my socks, as I ran the milk to the refrigerator in the firehouse kitchen. Afterall, I wasn't sure what kind of call I was going to, and how long we'd be there. Mom would already be disturbed that I wasn't home right away, I didn't want to aggravate the situation with warm milk.