Heroes and Accidental Champions

“Something’s burning!” I shrieked to the dispatcher after I dialed 911 over a month ago.

In minutes, firefighters were swarming through my house. They opened my closet door to a cascading mountain of dirty sweat pants. They yanked the rope to my pull-down attic stairs, which resulted in its usual tumbling of earwigs on the head of whomever has the guts to go up there.

As we were all looking for the source of the burning odor, I went into anxiety overdrive. I was hyperventilating, holding my head, and screaming incoherently, “AHHHHHH!! BURNING THING!!!! SMELL IS!”

“You seem a little nervous,” one of them said.

Finally, we found a fluorescent light bulb that was smoking and filling the house with reeking fumes.

I had called the fire department only a few months prior. I heard rushing water, but couldn’t find the source. Again, my house was teeming with firefighters. Without hesitation, the captain, all dressed up in a tie, white shirt and perfectly shined black wingtip shoes, plodded through my flooded basement in ankle deep water, found the faucet to a burst hose, and turned it off.

An hour later, with humiliation beyond belief, I went to the fire station and dropped off some chocolates and apologized profusely for his ruined dress shoes. 

Then there’s my wood stove. The fellow who installed it was also a fireman. The stove was faulty, but I didn’t know that. The fireman, who put in stoves and cleaned chimneys as a sideline along with his fire department job, had installed the stove perfectly. But 3 weeks later, I had a chimney fire. Again, I had the team at my house. 

“Hey!” I shouted at the crew of four standing in my living room in heavy yellow uniforms and helmets with visors covering their faces. “One of your own put this stove in. And he’s supposed to be helping people! I bet he’s hiding in the station, rummaging through a box of Dunkin’ Donuts and snatching the Bavarian Creams. I’m going to call and let him have it!”

“He’s standing right next to you,” one yellow man said.

And the good person who had installed my stove flipped up his visor.

“Oh boy,” I said, shuffling my feet. “So – oh boy, how . . .  have you been? Um  . . .  can I get you a donut or money or something?”

I hate the wood stove. But my husband Bob loves it. He sits quietly watching the slow flames through the glass front. During this entire time, I stand on a chair next to the stove smelling the ceiling.

Bob thinks this ruins the ambiance.

You know, I begin writing my column weeks before deadline. I started writing this soon after September 11th.

I realize by now we’re over the initial shock. But the pain’s still here. Nothing can take it away, but there are some things that can make it better. One is time. Two is connecting with others, even strangers. Three is trying to help.

And there’s something else.

Venerating heroes of all sorts. Professional rescuers, as well as untrained saviors, who acted in God-like ways. The men, including our president, who cried on national TV, teaching our girls and boys a spectacular gender lesson. Heroes who put out flags having never felt patriotic before, who gave blood although they were afraid of needles, who in shyness attended vigils to show support. And the heroes who come to my house and yours in times of peace and tragedy – whether we have a raging fire or a smoldering bulb.

In enormous ways and in ways that may seem small but really aren’t, many of us are exceptional.