Growing up in Washington, I never dreamed of being a firefighter. Fire was not in my blood, as they say. No one in my immediate family served in the fire service, nor as law enforcement, nor as first responders; I was much more interested in music and sports. Back then, in the ancient days before cell phones and pagers, a fire call meant the city disaster alarm would ring. I remember watching these volunteers—neighbors, men, and women that I had no connection with—donning vehicles, turning on the flashing lights, and racing somewhere at the call of the siren. 

I moved to the Chillicothe area, Rome, when I was nineteen. Not too long after, I found the love of my life, Kathy. We got married, bought a house in Chillicothe, and began our life together. We raised three children in the district, two of the three still live close to home, and the third is not too far away. Fast forward forty-plus years, Kathy and I have been blessed with seven grandchildren (so far): six girls who live in the district and a grandson not far away. 

We were pretty busy when the kids were growing up; our boys played travel hockey through Peoria youth hockey; travel baseball in the district; music through grade school and high school; and a multitude of other activities that kept us all running. A typical midwestern family. Our kids and grandkids are just as busy, if not more. 

It was summer time—travel softball was in full swing and it was tournament time. Hot weather and lots of movement. Granddaughter #2 and dad were at a tournament just south of Springfield, early in the morning waiting on a later arrival of the rest of the tribe. Mom, the other five granddaughters, my wife (grandma), and another in tow were en route to the tournament. I stayed home, working on the never-ending cycle of home remodeling and repair. That day changed Kathy and I forever. 

In late morning, I received a call from Kathy, frantic and panic in her voice. Something had happened to the littlest of the grandkids, a seizure or arrest of some kind. My wife, huddled with five of her grandkids, watched and described to me on the phone how mom carried the lifeless form of her youngest into the hotel lobby, screaming for help and praying for God to not take her child. There was a first responder in the hotel lobby that day. He and Mom began immediate CPR and were able to revive our granddaughter. She was rushed to a local hospital for more tests and checks; to this day we are not conclusive as to what caused the event. By the grace of God, and the quick action of a bystander, we were spared the life of a child. Today, two-plus years later, she is a healthy, onery, sweetheart of a child who has Papa wrapped around her little finger. 

All of this leads me up to the purpose of this story, the biggest part of why I joined the Chillicothe Fire Department. The simple answer is to try to repay a debt that I can never repay, to pay the gift we were given forward to the best of my ability. Our Lord calls us to serve others, faithful stewards of God’s grace. I never thought that would lead me to the fire service, but it has and I have fallen in love with what I now am, a firefighter and emergency responder. I try to earn that title each and every time I respond, to learn a little more. I guess there is now fire in my blood, evident in the fact that our youngest son has joined as well. I am proud to be a part of this. Looking back, my one wish is that I had started much earlier. 

I have been on only for a short time. In that time, I have met many men and women, the old “Salty Dogs” who have forgotten more about the fire service than I will ever have the opportunity to learn. I value each and every contribution. The members, past and present, of the Chillicothe Community Fire Protection District have accepted me as one of their own, part of the family. I am proud to serve alongside them and continue to work, day by day, to earn their trust and respect. There is always much to learn, and much to prepare for. 

And besides, who doesn’t like to ride in the big red truck…