The Fire Chief’s Daughter

By Rosemary Davis
By Rosemary Davis

Has never pulled a man from a burning car after fishing on Lake Erie all day and then driven home and cleaned the perch.

Can’t think of the 1967 race riots in Toledo without being grateful that the chief wasn’t hurt, although his white fire coat made him a target.

Would hear his voice on the fire radio and picture him speeding away from No. 5’s fire station whenever there was a two-alarm fire.

Learned from the chief to quiet her voice in a crisis, because it helped her and the patients in ER calm down.

Wouldn’t let her teenage boys play with a potato gun fueled by hairspray, because she and the chief had both seen the burns that result when hairspray ignites.

Looks for exit signs in case of fire, never overloads electrical circuits, and is careful with the candles she burns at home.

Thinks of the years of volunteer work, the anonymous donations, and the scholarship he endowed.

Hopes to live up to his example.

Comments

2 responses to “The Fire Chief’s Daughter”

  1. Eliza Waters Avatar

    Clean and simple Father’s Day tribute to a man who didn’t count the gifts he gave. His love and service flowed like water, naturally.

  2. Pamela Gemin Avatar
    Pamela Gemin

    Wow, what an appropriate piece! Wish there were poems for daughters of all the fathers. Happy Father’s Day to All!

Recent Posts

Best Summer Ever!

Dead RV battery. Ticks on the dogs. Ticks on us. Toothache. Dead car battery. Awning broke. Our 10×10 pop-up gone in the wind. “Best summer ever!” I told Jody. Lake George, New York, our seventh campground, was the first time Jody and I felt like we were really on vacation—living in our RV, traveling the…

Fall Morning

Earlier this week I ate breakfast, sitting in a chair on the deck, wrapped in a fleece blanket. With a morning temp in the lower fifties, the conditions were not exactly perfect and I did not care. These beautiful days of early fall are too precious to waste. Three weeks ago, our temps still tried…

My Summer in Bugs

June’s magical fireflies blink “love me, love me.” Disappearing sparks. Late July’s crickets’ chorus a shimmery soundtrack for evenings on the porch.  By the time I hear mosquitoes’ whining buzz, I’m in trouble and smack my neck. My hand comes back with blotched with blood. Maybe mine.  Cicadas drone in August, their whining dirge signals…


Get WordSisters by Email