MMS MilkPaint™ Celebrates Firefighters And The Magic Of A Red “Tricycle”
There is magic in a red tricycle. The kind of magic that turns a foot-powered three-wheeler into a screaming fire engine. The kind of power that transforms common child’s play into an urgent world of spinning red lights and a race to rescue. Typically there’s a garden hose nearby and a fully involved towering inferno of pure imagination.
For 32 years, my father lived that childhood dream; and for 32 years, he slid down poles, ran hose lines, manned pump panels, climbed ladders, busted windows, carried the injured, dismantled vehicles, drove fire engines, maneuvered ladder trucks, and was a part of the brotherhood of professional firefighters.
When Miss Mustard Seed's® MilkPaint™ asked me if there was something I could do this month that would honor firefighters, I said, “I think I’ve got this one,” and I broke out the “Tricycle!”
As my mom and I would enter the apparatus floor, one of the firefighters would yell out, “Two Bells!”, that meant that there were women in the firehouse. (AKA, watch your language.) Then another firefighter would pull a coin from his pocket and tap twice on the brass pole, calling out “Decher!”. I’d watch from below as my father would appear in the hole in the ceiling and, with barely any effort, would slide down to greet us.
Next to the brass pole was an extra-large round table. It had a big lion’s claw feet and a metal band that ran the edge of the table. The surface was some kind of small tile-like stones embedded into a compound surface. Not quite travertine and yet not linoleum, this white and colorful surface played host to a ring of barreled back Windsor chairs that I now know are endearingly referred to as “Firehouse Windsors.”
Have you ever walked into a firehouse? It’s a practice in readiness. Apparatus doors are left open, and boots stand in position with turnout coveralls gathered around the mouth of the boots. In three quick steps, feet are placed into each boot, and pant straps come up and over shoulders. Helmets are at an arm's reach, and with one arm on and one arm still sliding in, an uninterrupted urgency propels all to a rig that is already turning its wheels. And just like that, the apparatus floor is empty, and my father is gone. Inside (just like each time my dad left for work), I’d say a small prayer, asking that my daddy would return safely.
I was little when my dad was a New York City firefighter. FDNY. Or, as my father would refer to it, The Yankees! His Engine Company was in the financial district of Manhattan, yet they answered calls in other boroughs as well. He would speak of the thrill of hanging off the back of a rig with sirens wailing as the Brooklyn Bridge passed overhead. At times they would even get called to a neighboring island, Staten Island, and they would transport aboard the Staten Island Ferry. And when racing down Wall Street, he would think to himself, “Poor Guys,” as he watched the three-piece suits hurrying into massive institutions of money and high blood pressure.
My dad had to leave the Yankees due to my mother’s serious illness. He returned to his original firefighter’s job in New Jersey, where my mother and I could be taken care of by family members. Over the years that followed, I would overhear the stories. Stories of being frozen to the bone as water kicked back from the flames boiling hot, drenching them and instantly turning frigid in the winter’s night air. Stories of turnout coats needing a cleaning due to blood from crash victims. Or the mention of a sore back and arms after holding up one side of an ambulance gurney, so paramedics could tend to a victim while standing on a downslope. There were scary nights, like when my dad fought fires of civil unrest after Martin Luther King Jr. was murdered or when someone chose to end their life by jumping in front of a train. Firefighters get called to all the things we civilians hope to never see in our lifetime.
I’ve put together a little video of my dad reminiscing (and my painting). He’s 87 now. But listening to his memories paints pictures in my mind of radio rooms and single beds laid out in rows. Memories of a big wall map highlighting every street and hydrant and a pay phone he used each night he worked to call and say good night to me. “On” two days, “Off” a day, “On” two nights, and “Off” three days. 8 AM to 5 PM, or 5 PM to 8 AM, the pattern would repeat itself. It didn’t matter if your workday fell on Christmas or your birthday, the pattern held true, and families adjusted, celebrating when they could. And that is why Miss Mustard Seed’s® MilkPaint™ asked me to celebrate them.
Today as I share my personal story, I am telling the story of every firefighter’s kid. And I tell it so that those who never knew the depths of the job can remember how committed firefighters are to the communities they serve. So please, when you see firefighters on the roadside collecting “Boot” donations, remember to not be bothered by the short delay and donate. The boot donations are for burn victims, and I have included links so you can donate here as well.
https://burninstitute.org/red-line-of-courage-fund/
I’ve picked up my “Tricycle” again. It is on the end of my paintbrush.
My Firehouse Windsor chair will come out of retirement and take on a new life as it carries my memories and the imagination of every child that said, “When I grow up, I want to be a firefighter!”
Finally, enjoy this heartwarming interview of Kathy’s father as she paints her Firefighter Windsor Chair.
