When I first heard of this story circulating the web-o-sphere I thought it had to be one of those Brian Williams parody spoofs. The hilarious part is – it’s not… This is a story he actually told and USA Today published it – and when you contrast it against the stories surfacing, this one is a doozy.
USA TODAY – […] So it’s not surprising that on the day I became eligible, I signed up to be a volunteer firefighter in my hometown of Middletown, N.J. Fighting fires isn’t for everybody, but for me, it was the most pleasing act of volunteerism. It was tactile, tangible, and it paid huge dividends. It ties directly to your community and your neighbors.
My firehouse was a modest engine company — three engines, three garage doors and about 30 of the best men I’ve ever known. We fought all the usual fires that break out in the suburbs: brush fires, car fires, dumpsters, dryers, light fixtures — and worst of all, the occasional house, already in flames when we arrived.
I remember one such house fire — the structure was fully involved with flames and smoke. I was wearing a breathing apparatus, conducting a search on my hands and knees, when I felt something warm, squishy and furry on the floor of a closet. I instinctively tucked it in my coat. When I got outside, I saw two small eyes staring up at me, and I returned the 3-week-old (and very scared) puppy to its grateful owners.
I miss fighting fires every day. I miss everything about it — the sights, the smells, the equipment, the urgency — but mostly the camaraderie. I keep my fire helmet in my office at 30 Rock here in New York as a constant reminder of who I used to be and what I used to do. Mostly, I miss the service of it. Even on days when we answered no alarms, I was still able to say, “I served today. I was there, had I been needed by my neighbors.” (read more)