Tradition

There are lots of stories among my husband and his friends of burning things. VCRs, gas grills, 5-gallon water jugs, front yards. I know it's just a matter of time before I come home to a mysterious burning smell and craters in my yard.

For the last four mornings on the way to work, my son has told me "When I grow up, I want to be a fire man." (He says the words independently – fire man, not fireman.) Lots of parents tell their kids they can be whatever they want when they grow up, but secretly hope their child doesn't enter into a dangerous profession like snake charming, lion taming, or fire fighting. I'm not one of those parents. You see, my grandfather was a volunteer fire fighter. So was my father. Which was cool, because back in the day, your kid got to ride in the fire truck during parades and throw candy at the spectators.

My husband was a volunteer fire fighter when we were dating and engaged. When we got married, we did the local department tradition of riding on the back of the engine to Main Street, where the groom wheels the bride down one block in a wheelbarrow.

(Want to make your wedding photographer really excited? Tell him he can ride on the hose bed of a fire truck after the ceremony.)

If Busby wants to be a fire man, I'm not going to stop him. After all, fire setting is in his blood. Shouldn't fire fighting be as well?