When the first siren sounded, I thought nothing of it. We live a block and a half from our local fire house. Our street is the main route for the station’s vehicles. We hear a lot of sirens.
This time, I didn’t hear the siren move toward our house, then surge past with the roar of a large engine. The siren stayed in one place… and other sirens called back from a distance, then closer and closer.
At my office window, lights flashed though the blinds. I jerked them up in time to see a ladder truck wheeze to a stop in front of our house, EMT truck close behind. I thought I could see smoke past the corner of the building next door. I’ll go out to bring in the newpaper in my pajamas, but I dress for a fire. I pulled on jeans and a sweater, and grabbed my camera.
At the front door, I could smell the smoke. And on the sidewalk in front of our house, I could see pale gray billows rising from the roof of a two-story apartment building down the street. A firefighter clambered up the ladder of his truck onto the roof, and disappeared into the haze.
I walked to the corner, and stood with several neighbors drawn by the commotion. A fine drizzle hung in the air. We could see only smoke and lights and firemen, and eventually a spray of water arcing up onto the roof.
Thirty years ago, some high-school friends and I happened on a nighttime fire, an old warehouse burning near the club where we’d gone dancing. We stood across the street, entranced, watching the flames dance in the broken windows, hearing the crackling and hissing as the structure was consumed. Tonight, I was glad to see no flames.
An hour later, it is once again quiet and dark on our street. I’m back in my pajamas. My hair smells of smoke. I am warm, and dry, and safe. I hope the folks who live in the building down the street are, too.
This weekend, I think I’ll bake some cookies for the guys at our firehouse. I’m glad they’re nearby.
