I grew up in the great white north, fishing, hunting, loving the outdoors. When I was about 7 or 8 there was a really bad forest fire near my home town, they had lost control of it and it was headed towards town. From my bedroom window I could hear the planes over head and see the clouds of smoke. I went out on to our deck and I could see it, see the roaring fire bearing down on our town. There were police cars in the streets driving up and down voices booming from their loud speakers, "pack only what you can carry, unlock and leave your doors open so pets can escape." I remember be scared and excited at the same time. I remember driving out of town through the blaze there was fire on both sides of the highway and crews battling back and forth trying to keep the road clear for evacuees. I remember telling my father, "dad that's what I want to do when I grew up." He turned around and laughed in my face told me to sit down and shut up, that short fat guys don't make firefighters. I never forgot that I've had to bust my ass to get here but here I am 17 years I've been fighting fires and only now I've I figured the toll I paid to prove him wrong. Something inside broke along the way or maybe I was always broken either way there's no fixing what I've done to those along the way, and to my family I will forever be sorry I wasn't the father I could've been.
