I was leaving a political campaign office in Baltimore’s Waverly neighborhood after a volunteer shift when a fellow campaigner, Robin, asked me for a favor. She had been invited to a last-minute meeting and needed someone to watch her eight-year-old daughter, Emily. I had spent time with Emily before at other campaign events. She was a sweet and interesting kid, so I quickly agreed.
We spent the first twenty minutes or so on the ground level of the building, coloring on large sheets of paper. However, it was a beautiful day, and Emily said she wanted to do something different. I suggested we take a walk through the neighborhood, thinking in the back of my mind that we might end up at the ice cream shop a few blocks away.
A few blocks down from the campaign office was a firehouse, and as we passed by, Emily stopped to marvel at a pumping truck parked halfway out the door of the station. The truck had all manner of dials, levers, switches, and connectors. Emily started pointing to various devices and asking me what they were used for. Some things had labels, so using my pipefitting knowledge, I was able to explain a few of them. Many of the devices had only abbreviations, so I quickly ran out of expertise.
A firefighter walked out to the truck and prepared to wash it. I told him how interested Emily was in the truck, and he asked if she would like to see the inside. She responded with a resounding “yes,” and our new firefighter friend, David Harris, opened the doors and invited us to climb up. David let Emily sit in the driver’s seat, where she pressed the button to make the siren wail briefly. He also showed her how to turn on some of the flashing lights, which she did with glee.
As we climbed down from the huge truck, I wasn’t expecting it, but David offered us a tour of the firehouse as well. He showed Emily where the firefighters kept their boots and jackets, where they cooked and ate their meals, where they slept, and the famous pole they slid down when racing to a fire. When David offered Emily the chance to slide down the pole, I assumed he would hold her while he slid down. Instead, he spent time showing her how to grip the pole properly, and once convinced she could do it safely, he let her slide down all by herself. David even let me try it, too—a glorious ending to our tour.
Emily and I walked back to the campaign headquarters, where I handed her care back to her mother.
The next week, I saw Robin again at the campaign office and asked if Emily had mentioned our firehouse tour. Robin said, “Did she mention it? No, she didn’t mention it. It’s the only thing she has talked about since you dropped her off!” Robin told me that Emily was 100% sure she wanted to be a firefighter when she grew up.
I eventually lost track of Robin and Emily, so I don’t know if Emily ever became a firefighter, but I’m certain that neither of us will ever forget the day we slid down the pole at the fire station.
