What Growing Up in a Firehouse Taught Me

I still have that letter nearly 40 years later.

It is strange to think about how much of a life can turn on something so simple. If Doc had not written back, or if that letter had never arrived, nearly every chapter that followed might have been different. I might have joined another department, met different people and followed an entirely different path. Instead, that letter brought me to HVFD and to the people who would help raise me.

It also gave me a few lessons earlier than anyone probably intended.

On my second day around the department, someone told me to hop on the ambulance for a response. I was 12 years old, brand new and apparently willing to do whatever someone in the firehouse told me to do.

So I went.

I still remember the look on Chief Donald “Doc” Moltrup's face when I returned.

Needless to say, the next emergency response I went on was when I was 16.

That story still makes me laugh. It also captures something about growing up in a volunteer firehouse. It was a place where people looked out for you, corrected you and occasionally discovered that someone had allowed the 12-year-old to climb onto an ambulance. You learned where the boundaries were, sometimes because you had crossed one before the right person found out.

More Than a Fire Chief

I was extraordinarily fortunate to grow up around mentors like the late Chief Donald “Doc” Moltrup.

Doc was far more than the chief of the department. He was one of the people who helped shape the person I became. He led with courage, wisdom, loyalty, kindness and a sense of humor that made people want to be around him.

He believed in me during years when I did not always believe in myself. He held me accountable while also giving me room to learn, make mistakes and grow.

From Doc and the other senior members, I learned commitment, integrity, teamwork, resilience and the importance of taking care of the people beside you. Those lessons were not delivered through formal leadership programs. They came from watching how people behaved, how they treated one another and how they responded when something went wrong.

At a firehouse, younger members notice everything. They see who arrives early, who stays late, who quietly completes the work nobody wants and who checks on someone after a difficult call. They also see who can be counted on when the department itself is hurting.

The Night Everything Collided

One of the hardest periods in the department's history began the night Firefighter Alan P. Sondej was critically burned.

That same night, my grandmother died.

Even now, those two events are connected in my memory. Personal grief and the firehouse's grief arrived together. Alan survived initially, and in the weeks that followed, the firehouse waited, hoped and talked about his return.

He died less than two months later.

I remember the moment Doc came into a packed dayroom to tell us Alan had died. Some memories lose detail with time. Others remain fixed. The room, the people in it and the weight of what Doc had come to say are still with me.

For weeks, the conversation had been about Alan coming back. Members wanted to believe that he would walk through those doors again. Then Doc entered the room, and that hope ended in a few words.

What happened in the hours that followed also taught me something about the fire service. People stayed. They talked, remembered, cried and tried to absorb something none of us wanted to accept. There was no perfect thing to say and no way to make the loss smaller. The only thing people could do was be there for one another.

That is one of the most important things a firehouse does.

Showing Up on the Worst Days

Through calls, training, firehouse traditions and countless hours spent together, I learned that being a firefighter was not simply about responding to emergencies.

It was about showing up for people on their worst days, offering hope and reassurance, and accepting an obligation to something larger than yourself.

Sometimes the people experiencing the worst day of their lives were strangers. Sometimes they were members of your own department. Sometimes you were the one who needed other people to show up.

HVFD gave me friendships that have lasted a lifetime and helped carry me through some of the most difficult periods of my life. The firehouse was a constant when other parts of life felt uncertain.

Those friendships have survived changes in jobs, families, geography and the amount of time we are able to spend together. When we get together, it can feel as though we spoke yesterday, even if it has been months or years. The old stories return. So do the nicknames, many of which have lasted far longer than anyone probably expected when they were first given.

Our annual gatherings became an important way to maintain those connections. When COVID made the usual get-togethers impossible, we held a group Zoom instead. It was not the same as being together, but seeing everyone on the screen reinforced how much those relationships still mattered. The firehouse had connected us decades earlier, and even a pandemic was not going to make us skip the chance to reconnect.

It taught me how to remain calm under pressure, how to endure loss and adversity, and how to keep moving forward when circumstances seemed overwhelming. Those lessons applied far beyond emergency incidents. They shaped how I handled personal tragedy, professional challenges, leadership responsibilities and the inevitable moments when the department itself faced heartbreak.

Growing Up Among Generations

One of the greatest gifts of a volunteer firehouse is the opportunity to grow up around people from different generations, occupations and backgrounds.

At 12, I was surrounded by people with decades of experience. They had different personalities and different approaches, but they shared a commitment to the department and the community.

You learned how to work beside people you might never have met anywhere else. You learned that trust was earned over time and reinforced through action. You learned that your responsibilities did not disappear because you were tired, frustrated or dealing with something difficult outside the station.

You also learned fellowship. The calls mattered, but so did the hours between them. The conversations, jokes, meals, traditions and ordinary time together created the relationships that made it possible to operate as a team when the alarm sounded.

A Life That Started at HVFD

Nearly every important chapter of my adult life can be traced in some way to what began at HVFD.

The confidence and opportunities my mentors gave me led to leadership roles in the department, a career devoted to serving and communicating with the fire service, and friendships and experiences I never could have imagined as a 12-year-old walking into the firehouse.

The fire service has changed considerably since then, much of it for the better. Training, safety, accountability and our understanding of the physical and emotional effects of the job have all evolved. There are things we did years ago that should not be repeated, beginning, perhaps, with sending a 12-year-old out on an ambulance.

But I hope the fire service never loses the ability to give someone a place to belong, surround them with people who care enough to hold them accountable and provide the opportunity to become part of something larger than themselves.

HVFD did not simply teach me how to be a firefighter. It helped raise me. It gave me a lasting sense of identity and purpose. It showed me what it means to live a life grounded in service, loyalty, fellowship and gratitude.

I walked into the firehouse at 12 looking for something I probably could not have explained at the time.

I found it.