The Firehouse

In the days leading up to the anniversary of September 11th and on the morning of September 11th I spent time with some very special people. My local firehouse has become one of my favorite places. The guys I’ve met there are such real people. They argue, bicker and cuss at each other but they always have each other’s back. Then they race into a burning building to rescue people they don’t even know and who many others wouldn’t even care about Then they go back to their house and argue and bicker and cuss again. They perform this community service not because of the money and bennies (thought they aren’t bad). They do it because their dad or uncle or grandfather was a firefighter. They do it to keep the legacy going. Their families have ingrained in them a sense of service and this compels them to literally put their lives on the line. They actually love doing it. They want to be part of the action. I’ve decided I need to be more like these real life heroes. I am 47 years of age and I want to be firefighter.
Dave Watson - An Urban Christian

Sounds of the City

I grew up in a small town (pop. Of 825 not counting cows or other livestock) and have very fond memories of my upbringing there. At night in my small town it was and is very, very quiet. Yes, you hear an occasional car go by and the constant chirping of crickets but there is really no clue as to what is really going on in the world around you. The silence is almost deafening.

The sounds of the city by contrast provide you will all kinds of information. Take last Saturday evening for example. As dusk was settling in, from my open window I heard the moronic melody of the Ice Cream truck driving through my street bringing joy and dental bills to my neighborhood. This was accompanied by the rhythmatic pitter patter of little tykes joyously coming for a sugar fix. In the background, like a sub plot in a Aaron Sorkin TV drama, one could hear the sounds of a fire trucks rushing to a crisis around the corner. Potential glee and probable pain, the irony of the human condition, were both within earshot.

Later that same evening after the important Met and Yankee baseball game were over the neighborhood sounds spoke loudly of the outcomes. The Yankee side of my complex spoke in the hushed tones found at Matthew’s Funeral Home a midst the mourners. The Met side was loud and boisterous, like a popular Bistro on a hoping Friday night. No need for Sportscenter here. Victory and defeat were heard in the voices on the street below. The Yankees had been summarily removed from the baseball playoffs and there cross town rivals the Mets had, in convincing fashion, moved to the next round.

With very little effort one can hear the joys and sorrows of this city shouting up from the concrete. The noise at times can be deafening but it also always informative.